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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28632717">A Matter of Perspective</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/quilling_me_softly/pseuds/quilling_me_softly'>quilling_me_softly</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Tortall - Tamora Pierce</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon But I Moved It Three Steps to the Left, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Protector of the Small Quartet - Freeform, The Immortals War, Trauma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:35:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>68,348</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28632717</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/quilling_me_softly/pseuds/quilling_me_softly</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Let’s talk about two best friends, who – as everyone knows – couldn’t be less alike. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Everyone knows this. They laugh, when they say it, sometimes, or they scowl. Sometimes, it's said with simple astonishment. But they always say it, with the assumption threaded through their voices that it is as self-evident a fact as the sun rising in the east. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>(The scholar "Everyone" is justly famous for being very off-base.) </em>
</p><p>A different perspective on Kel and Neal, through the years.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Keladry of Mindelan &amp; Nealan of Queenscove, Keladry of Mindelan/Nealan of Queenscove</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>141</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>103</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. on the occurrence of impossibles</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The first thing, I think, is an explanation for the title. </p><p>In January, I reread "Lady Knight", and that one scene where Neal says to Kel "What's the matter, love?" Yeah, it <em> wrecked </em> me. And it got me thinking a lot about Neal's character, quirks, and backstory. And, of course, reading.</p><p>There's a bit of Kel/Neal fic out there, some of it excellent. Sadly, there is not enough of the excellent fic, so I decided that maybe I could jump into the fray. Also, I couldn't find a Best Friends to Lovers version of them that I liked. Cue an ever-lengthening novel, which is some combination of "hold my beer!" and "hot take, BUT..." </p><p>Inspiration and credit is due to h_vane for their "Rampant", and Emnot's "The Good Heart", which feature the most awesome takes on Wilina and Baird that I've ever read, and got me seriously thinking about what growing up as their son was probably like. </p><p>Inspiration is also drawn from kitsunerei88, and their amazingly compelling Neal character studies. Lifeincantos' "see me through" gave me <em> so many </em> Kel and Neal feels, and I've been inspired by that, as well as dutchydoescoke's "fixed point" series. </p><p>Cheers, everybody, and I hope you enjoy the ride.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Nealan of Queenscove is fourteen years old when he learns that anything – including many things previously judged impossible – can happen.</p><p>This is not a happy discovery.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning for content: Neal is something of a mess in this first chapter. He's fourteen years old, in a war, and he loses both his brothers, so I think it's understandable. But people may find the grief, loss, and scenes of violence triggering, or even just too angsty.</p><p>There is also one fairly graphic violence scene, featuring Immortals.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Let’s talk about Neal, shall we?</p><p class="p1">And, since we can’t talk about Neal without talking about Kel, let’s talk about the both of them.</p><p class="p1">Let’s talk about two best friends; who couldn’t be less alike, everyone agrees.</p><p class="p1">Everyone says this. Sometimes laughing, sometimes astonished, sometimes scowling with annoyance.</p><p class="p1">But they always say it, with the assumption threaded through their voices that it is as self-evident a fact as the sun rising in the east.</p><p class="p1">(Sometimes, everyone is very shortsighted.)</p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Let’s talk about the girl, the youngest of nine, bullied by one of her elder brothers. Let’s talk about the girl who repaid the world for this misfortune by becoming the champion of everyone who couldn’t speak for themselves.</p><p class="p1">Let’s talk about the littlest sister, who became the big sister to every person who would cross her path. Let's talk about the girl who learned to show no fear, no terror, no pain. Not to her enemies, not to her audience – and not to her friends. </p><p class="p1">Let’s talk about the girl who began to draw allies to her as a magnet draws iron filings, with her even temper, her cleverness, her sense of humour – above all, because of her compassionate heart that cared indiscriminately, and a loyalty that death couldn’t daunt.</p><p class="p1">But we talk about this girl a lot, don’t we?</p><p class="p1">So perhaps, for a little while, let us talk about the boy.</p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Let’s talk about the boy, who was quick and clever at a young age, and cheerfully coddled. Let’s talk about the younger middle child of four children, who lost his childhood and his older brothers in less than a month.</p><p class="p1">Let’s talk about the boy whose sky caved in when he was fourteen, who is terrified to love, and can no more stop caring than he can stop the tide from flowing.</p><p class="p1">Let’s talk about a heartbroken boy; a boy who has turned keeping people at arms-length into an art, but who can’t make himself make them leave.</p><p class="p1">Let’s talk about Nealan of Queenscove.</p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Neal, like every other Gifted person, learns on Longnight, Midwinter, of 451, that anything can happen. Including, but not limited to, <em>the barrier between the Mortal and Divine realms evaporating.</em></p><p class="p1">It’s not a widely-publicised fact, obviously, but you don’t grow up in court, as the son of the Duchy of Queenscove, without a talent for picking up dangerous information.</p><p class="p1">At first, it’s comforting to have an explanation, no matter how outlandish, for the fact that none of the walls of the palace seem real, and that the world keeps spinning, for the rest of the day.</p><p class="p1">The explanation stops being comforting, when Neal realises that the world has gone utterly, totally mad.</p><p class="p1">Classes are immediately suspended at the Royal University. The students in their final two years of study are impressed into service in their respective fields, underneath the supervision of all their masters. All of the adult mages are needed to fight. All of them, even the weather-mages, the theoreticians, the researchers.</p><p>The Immortals are <em>everywhere</em>. Every seaport town is at risk of being hit by raiders, aided by stormwings and hurroks. From the land, ravaging the southern coastal fiefs, there are reports of increased spidren attacks, flesh-eating unicorns, tauroses; there are fighting ogres coming over the mountains from Scanra, near the City of the Gods. To fight the immortals, they need every mage they can get.</p><p class="p1">And they need every Healer.</p><p class="p1">Neal packs his things from his room in the Mages' College under the watchful eye of his childhood nursemaid and rides back to the Queenscove townhouse. He, Jessamine and their parents have one night under the roof together, as a family - Cathal and Graeme are already in the field - before his father must ride to Port Caynn. The realm’s Chief Healer will be needed at the siege that is about to hit Tortall’s biggest, wealthiest trading port.</p><p>Neal, Jessamine and his mother remain, and they watch from the northern gate of Corus, until the horses have long passed from the horizon.</p><p class="p1">Then Mama takes them back to the townhouse and leads them to the shrines. They light sticks of incense there for Papa, for Graeme and Cathal, who will all be under siege soon. They are halfway through supper when Jessamine begins to cry, and Neal’s eyes burn with her.</p><p class="p1">Mama draws them from their chairs, into her arms on the floor, and Neal feels her tears soaking into his hair, as they weep on the floor of the house together, as they weep until there are no tears left. They all stumble off to bed, too drained to do anything other than sleep.</p><p class="p1">His mother wakes him at the crack of dawn, with fire in her eyes, and Neal blinks up at her. She opens her mouth to speak, but is cut-off by the distant sound of screaming, and Neal feels dread sweep over him.</p><p class="p1">Mama leans down and <em>shakes</em> him by the shoulders. “<em>Listen</em>,” she says, her voice blade-sharp. It penetrates the foggy dread, and Neal meets her eyes. “Get up, get dressed. I’ll go get your sister. Chain mail and helmet from the armoury, <em>now.</em> The Lower City needs help.”</p><p class="p1">Neal is out of the bed immediately, splashing his face in the basin of water, and scrambling into clean clothes before she’s even left the room.</p>
<hr/><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p1">Let’s talk about Neal’s mother, shall we? She gets less attention than her husband or her son, both of whom barely get much to begin with. But mothers, in a casual, everyday way, shape and break the world. So let us talk, just a little, about the woman who raised the boy.</p><p class="p1">Duchess Wilina of Queenscove was born Wilina of Haryse. She is the daughter of one of Tortall's most revered generals and descended by her mother from the haMinch clan, the backbone of the Tortallan army. She absorbed lessons in strategy over breakfast from age four and channels command as naturally as a pipe does water.</p><p class="p1">Throughout his life, Neal will forever be amused at the incredibly small number of people who are aware that his mother is also a mage. Unlike his father, she isn’t trained as a healer. She isn’t trained as a war mage, either. </p><p class="p1">She is trained as a general’s daughter is trained; trained as someone who grew up against a background of raids, counterattacks, whose parental substitutes were corporals and sergeants, not noble, convent-trained governesses. She is an expert with a dagger, in physical and magical dirty fighting; in sideways cantrips, tricks and charms.</p><p class="p1">From the time he is fourteen onwards, Neal is forever grateful for that legacy of dirty fighting and sideways cantrips.</p><p class="p1">Six days after the Barrier falls, two days after Port Caynn is officially besieged, stormwings mass in the air above Corus. Their terror and fear ripples through the city, and sentries report a squadron of hurroks flying towards the Daymarket.</p><p class="p1">The Provost’s Guard are armed with batons, not spears, bows, or pole-arms.</p><p class="p1">That day, Duchess Wilina of Queenscove strides into each temple, dressed in mail. One after the other, she <em>collars</em> the senior Mithran priests, and the senior priestesses of the Goddess, and harries them into offering their wings, all of them, as extra hospital space for the citizens of the Lower City.</p><p class="p1">The second she strides out of the last temple, she mounts her horse and turns to her children, from where they sit on their own mounts, and leads them to the Daymarket, giving them orders as they ride.</p><p class="p1">“Stick together,” she tells them, sharply. “They’ll be aiming to create chaos. It could get as ugly as a riot. Keep your heads low – look out for little ones. Neal, look after your sister. Jessamine, grab everyone you can who is seriously injured, or separated from an adult. Meet me at the Temple of the Goddess!”</p><p class="p1">They halt outside the Daymarket, all dismounting in unison. Their mother kisses each of them on the forehead, hard and swift, and dives into the crowd, shouting, “Follow me!”</p><p class="p1">Fear is gripping his throat, but Neal follows his orders.</p>
<hr/><p class="p1">It’s a <em>mess.</em></p><p class="p1">They find an infant, fallen from her mother’s sling onto a stall-bench still half-covered in turnovers in the chaos. There’s something terribly wrong with her skull and she’s bleeding, but she’s still <em>breathing</em>, Neal senses the flicker of her heartbeat still pulsing, so he grabs two turnovers for whoever they meet who’ll need food, thrusts the infant into his sister’s arms, and dives from the cover of the stall into the stampede. </p><p class="p1">Two siblings, six and eight, broken arms, and ribs, judging from the pained wheezing coming from one of them. Neal tackles them to the cobblestones, putting himself between them and the hurrok whose hooves had hurt them.</p><p class="p1">The winged horse is rearing at the impudent little mortal, who has dared to obstruct it, and Neal wants to panic, wants to scream and laugh, but there’s no <em>time</em> for that. Instead, he sketches a sigil in the air for sticking, and clumsily <em>shoves</em> it at the hurrok’s rear hooves, which are still firmly planted on the cobblestones, with all his strength.</p><p class="p1">“Run!” he snaps at the little ones, pointing at his sister, and thankfully they obey, thankfully Jessamine is still in the stall.</p><p class="p1">Neal jumps back as the hurrok lets out an outraged squeal, and brings down its front hooves where Neal had been lying an instant before.</p><p class="p1">He sketches out another sticking sigil, and it hits the hurrok’s front hooves now, but while he’s sketching, a big person hits him from the side, pushing him to the ground, and the wind is knocked out of him. When the person runs over him, all of his considerable weight on his rib for a moment, Neal’s vision almost goes black.</p><p class="p1">But adrenaline gives him strength, and the foot leaves his spine, so Neal fights down nausea and <em>moves</em>.</p><p class="p1">He rolls to his feet, head swimming, and takes a deep breath, letting his vision stabilise. When it finally does, when he can <em>see</em> again, he hears the scream of another child to his left, and he fights through the crowd till he can peer over around the shoulders of taller adults.</p><p class="p1">He sees another child, four years old, backed against a stall two metres away. Another hurrok has backed it against the stall, and Neal’s heart is in his mouth. No time for negotiation: he <em>shoves</em> a path through the crowd with his magic. The child is screaming, cowering, putting his hands over his head to protect himself, and the hurrok has seized the child’s arm in its mouth.</p><p class="p1">Neal jumps, crouches, draws his razor-sharp belt-buckle knife, and slices, aiming for the vulnerable tendons of the hurrok’s cannons. This time, another scream of fury from the thwarted immortal, and Neal dives to the side, before it collapses, and then crawls forward, slashing its belly open.</p><p class="p1">The child is free now, and Neal yanks him forward and out of the hurrok range by his closest arm, the savaged one, while a little voice howls a protest inside of him about how <em>you don’t put the patient in even more pain</em>, but the child is alive, and so is Neal, and that’s all that matters right now.</p><p class="p1">“<em>Neal! Over here!”</em></p><p class="p1">Somehow, Jessamine’s scream cuts through the uproar, and Neal manages to tow the crying child with him back to the stall. Jessamine is still rocking the baby, and the other two children are clinging to her like burrs. Her face is white as a sheet.</p><p class="p1">“We need to get to the horses,” she says, and Neal can only nod in agreement.</p><p class="p1">As soon as they arrive in the hospital area of the Temple of the Goddess, Neal turns to the side and throws up. As he does, something in his side seems to <em>explode</em> with agony, and his vision goes black, and all he can think is, <em>this again</em>.</p><p class="p1">When he comes to, Jessamine’s little hands are in his hair, tugging none-too-gently, as she snaps orders at a priestess – “Water, a basin, a sop-cloth, <em>tell my mother</em> –” and he manages a crooked smile. Just for her.</p><p class="p1">“At least I’m conscious,” he tells Jessamine, because Neal doesn’t yet say polite lies like, “I’m fine.”</p><p class="p1">“Good,” Jessamine retorts. “Now you need to stay that way. I need help with the triage, if you can move.”</p><p class="p1">Neal puts a hand to his own side, and manages to quiet the agony so that it’s aching. Six on the ten-point scale. He’ll cope.</p><p class="p1">“I can now,” he says, giving her another crooked smile.</p><p class="p1">Jessamine hands him a cup. “Rinse and spit. You’ve got sick in your teeth.”</p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Jessamine has no Gift, and they are at war. The day after the hurrok-and-Stormwing attack on the Daymarket, he takes her to the family armoury. She comes out with a sword on her hip, and the daggers that she normally keeps tucked in her room hanging on a belt.</p><p class="p1">Whenever they have a spare moment and enough energy to physically lift the sword, Neal practices with her with determination that would make his old tutors gape.</p><p class="p1">He also teaches her every dirty trick he knows.</p><p class="p1">Jessamine adopts them with disturbing speed, develops a few of her own, and returns the favour.</p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">By January 13<span class="s1"><sup>th</sup></span>, they’ve become ridiculously good at triage. There have been two more incidents where massed stormwings caused chaos and panic in the streets, leading to people – especially women and children – being injured.</p><p class="p1">On the 5<span class="s1"><sup>th</sup></span>, a group of wyverns had attacked at the southern gate, while spidrens massed in the Royal Forest. They were there in the Temple infirmaries that night, with their mother, who was dragging, supporting, and in one memorable case of a child with a broken leg, princess-carrying injured people in off the streets.</p><p class="p1">That night, Jessamine had learned how to multitask: to brew soothing teas, <em>and</em> directing new patients to emptier wards, <em>and</em> tell an old anecdote of family mischief to that last child, whose thighbone is sticking out of their leg.</p><p class="p1">Neal didn’t even try to fix the cough that the wyvern gas left people with. He hasn’t yet been taught how to deal with lungs, and Papa drummed it into him: <em>the Gift can heal, and it injure. Do not attempt to heal something you haven’t been taught.</em></p><p class="p1">What he’s been taught is almost nothing, a bitter voice inside him says. And the voice inside him that sounds like his father, his mother, like Jessamine retorts: no. He’s been taught how to reduce pain and inflammation both, how to soothe the body. So he moves through the wards, calling dark green magic around his hands for the pain of man and woman and child alike, and rambles as he goes.</p><p class="p1">That’s another lesson Papa taught him: <em>talk to the patient. No matter what you say, just talk. They need to know someone is there.</em> So Neal does; he rambles about his books, and historical debates, and has anyone thought about telling wyverns that they should brush their teeth yet? Perhaps they could unleash a squad of noble governesses on them?</p><p class="p1">Sometimes, his patients laugh, and sometimes, they’re merely annoyed. It’s a win in either case; they’re distracted from the physical pain.</p><p class="p1">His sister and he are arming themselves with swords and daggers, and so, so much more: silly jokes, lullabies and romantic fairytales, sarcastic remarks and dark humour. More than once, Jessamine has crawled into his bed after she wakes up from nightmares; more than once, Neal has woken up crying. </p><p class="p1">Their mother looks at them with expressionless eyes, when they finally leave the infirmary that day, but her voice breaks when she says to them: “I am <em>so proud</em> of you.”</p><p class="p1">Unspoken, Neal realises, is that she wishes she’d never had to be proud of them for <em>this</em> kind of reason.</p><p class="p1">He and Jessamine look at each other for a moment, and in unison, they step forward and hug their mother, and let her hug them back.</p><p class="p1">Her embrace is tight enough to be painful, and therefore, perfect.</p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">On January the 3<span class="s1"><sup>rd</sup></span>, they receive a fire-speaking message from Papa and Graeme. In the flickering flames, Papa's eyes are wet; Graeme’s are blank, blank, blank, and only his clenched fists give anything away.</p><p class="p1">Cathal is dead, Papa says. He had been with a squad of Queen’s Riders, on the sea walls of Port Caynn, covering a few fishermen with crossbows. Some of the stormwings had decided to risk the arrow fire, and swoop closer; one had sliced his throat open. There had been nothing anyone could do; they could not recover his body.</p><p class="p1">Mama slowly nods.</p><p class="p1">“Dead.”</p><p class="p1">“Yes, my love,” Papa says.</p><p class="p1">Mama draws in a deep, shuddering breath, and nods. “And you, love? Graeme?”</p><p class="p1">Neal can’t actually hear the rest of the conversation, after that.</p><p class="p1">Jessamine begins to cry, little shuddering sobs that give the impression of glass, slowly splintering.</p><p class="p1">Neal wants to cry. He can’t. His tear ducts remain stubbornly empty.</p><p class="p1">He wants to tease his big brother, turn to him with the raised eyebrow he mastered only a year ago, and say, “What, too afraid of Aunt Roxanne to attend your own funeral?” And he can’t, because Cathal is dead<em>.</em></p><p class="p1">It’s not funny, but the world has gone mad, and Cathal is gone, his brother is gone, and after a few minutes, Mother severs the fire-link that allows them to speak. Papa cannot spend his Gift on spending more than a little time with his family; he <em>has</em> to conserve it for his patients.</p><p class="p1">Neal bows to his mother and sister, and Mama is nodding at him, her expression understanding, even though her eyes are faraway, as she wraps an arm around his sister. Excuses made, he runs out the townhouse, into the courtyard.</p><p class="p1">And the words which he expected to find on his tongue, flowing and thick and fast the way they always come, are not there.</p><p class="p1">The night air is cold. He paces up and down, breathing in the frigid air, ignoring the way it forms spikes in his throat, somehow still aware of the snowflakes sliding down his shirt. Fuck. He really should have gotten his cloak out.</p><p class="p1">His brother is dead.</p><p class="p1">He is no longer one of a quartet. It is now Graeme, him and Jessamine. Cathal is dead.</p><p class="p1">Neal lets out a horrified laugh, and it’s as though the dam breaks. <em>He</em> breaks, laughing until he cries, letting out short, animal wails at how insane the world has turned. </p><p class="p1">His father and brother are in a city under siege, there are creatures out of his childhood stories attacking, and Cathal is dead.</p><p class="p1">He draws a muffling sigil in the dirt – the servants will need to sleep soon – and stands in it, and cries and screams and shouts, until his voice is hoarse, and his mother’s hands are around his, dragging him firmly back into the house, and to his bedroom.</p><p class="p1">Mama methodically helps him undress, undoing buttons and ties that his hands are too cold and fumbling to deal with, and tucks him in like he’s four, rather than fourteen.</p><p class="p1">He goes through the next two days in such a fog, that the official news barely penetrates his ears.</p><p class="p1">Immortals have taken Royal Forest, and set up nests a mile away from the Southern and Eastern gates.</p><p class="p1">Come the spring, Corus will be under siege.</p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The fog, the deep, jarring <em>wrongness</em> of a world without his brother in it, hangs over him heavy throughout the next week, so heavy that he feels like it might suffocate him. Some days, he drags himself to the Temple, helping treat the ailments of the Lower City that never stop, even under the siege. More and more often, he’s at the Palace, in the healers’ ward, helping ease pain and soothe and to ward off infection, and allowing the healers with more training to use less of their Gift when they do the heavy lifting.</p><p class="p1">After the third consecutive night of he or Jessamine waking up in tears or with shakes, Neal gives up. He asks the man who used to tutor him his letters for help, and together, they moves his mattress into Jessamine’s room, adjacent to her bed, partitioned with a privacy screen.</p><p class="p1">It saves time; and saved time means saved sleep.</p><p class="p1">The courtyard of the Queen’s Riders used to be filled with teasing, laughter, whoops of trick riding and grunts of effort as they practiced. Now it is quieter; sometimes there’s laughter, but they are weary chuffs, not bright peals.</p><p class="p1">He passes through one day, on the way to the healer’s ward, as a group of trainees attached to the Fifth, Thayet’s Dogs, are trotting in. And Neal feels, even through the suffocating fog, a flutter in his stomach, as he sees a trainee with shining blue eyes, black hair, and a wry smile on her lips, as she looks over at one of her friends, and says something teasing. For all that there’s blood on her jerkin, her eyes are shining still, and laughing, and the sunlight is playing on her hair, giving it a strange, beautiful black-bluish tint.</p><p class="p1">She turns in her saddle and meets his eyes. Neal blushes, and her smile widens and she winks at him. He smiles back, bright and warm, even as he feels his cheeks grow even hotter.</p><p class="p1">It’s the first sensation of beauty, of joy, of something <em>good</em>, he’s had all week.</p><p class="p1">Four days later, he kneels on the cobblestones of the courtyard, green fire wreathed in his hands, frantically working to stop the bleeding of a head-wound that would turn her black-blue hair red. He succeeds, and then tears himself away from her side to move through the healer’s ward, still dazed and trying to shake the images out of his mind.</p><p class="p1">He pours in a bit of his Gift here, a bit there, a bit there, too terrified to stop, until at last, the healer in charge forces him into a chair, and shoves a glass of juice into his hand. </p><p class="p1">Neal is too tired to do anything but follow the path of least resistance. He drinks the fruit juice in two swift gulps.</p><p class="p1">The older mage doesn’t so much as bat an eyelash. He refills the glass, and then hands Neal a plate with a sandwich on it. “Eat.”</p><p class="p1">Neal eats the sandwich and finds that, although he has no idea what he has just eaten or drunk, he does feel better. He murmurs thanks to the older mage, and is given a dismissive wave in reply.</p><p class="p1">“Go home, Queenscove. You’re no good to your friends if you kill yourself from exhaustion.”</p><p class="p1">Neal takes the hint, and rides back to the Queenscove townhouse. The sun has set; his mother is out, and the housekeeper tells him that she’s consulting with the Queen. Jessamine is attacking a battered practice dummy in the courtyard. He waves to her, and walks straight the bathhouse, in the hopes that the <em>feeling</em> of the blood still being on his hands might vanish, if he only sits for long enough in the warm, soothing water.</p><p class="p1">It doesn’t, although he does almost drown. Thankfully, the attendant drags him out before his head can hit the water, and then towels him off, helps him dress, and shepherds him to bed. Neal lets him. The path of least resistance sometimes involves people comforting you, and Neal is fourteen and <em>too damn tired</em> to refuse, even if it <em>is</em> unmanly. </p><p class="p1">The next morning, when he drags himself out of bed and down to the breakfast table, there are guests at the table. Queen Thayet and Duke Gareth the Elder of Naxen. Neal blinks sleep out of his eyes, and tries not to pay attention to the way his stomach is dropping into his boots.</p><p class="p1">He isn’t <em>surprised</em> when the Queen tells him, her voice soft, that she regrets to tell them that his brother, Sir Graeme is dead; his father is alive, but wounded, and will be soon returning to Corus.</p><p class="p1">He isn’t surprised, but regardless: Graeme isn’t dead. Graeme <em>can’t</em> be dead. Graeme is not <em>allowed</em> to be dead.</p><p class="p1">The Duke looks apologetic, and Neal realises dimly, <em>I said that last bit out loud.</em></p><p class="p1">But <em>still</em>, Neal thinks, as though this is a debate at the University, tugging at his hair, as fear rises in his throat. <em>Graeme is not allowed to be dead.</em> He isn’t, because if he is, then it’s only Neal and Jessamine left.</p><p class="p1">And that can’t be true. He’s the <em>third</em> son, the youngest, the one who has comfortably lazed in the shade of his brothers’ knighthoods, content to wait for the time when he finishes his training and lights the shadow up, with keen bright intellect and dark green magic.</p><p class="p1">“It was a mage assault – blood magic, directed at the King, combined with a group of half a dozen ogres that tried to get past the squad of the Own. Graeme accounted for two of them,” Jessamine says, softly.</p><p class="p1"><em>He would</em>, Neal thinks numbly, Graeme had always been a perfectionist on the practice courts, and that thought makes his brittle shield of denial crack, crack and begin to splinter.</p><p class="p1">Cathal is dead, and Graeme is dead. </p><p class="p1">His brothers are dead.</p><p class="p1">Neal shudders, nausea rising in his throat, and Jessamine empties the bread-bowl and passes it to him just in time.</p><p class="p1">There are only two of them now.</p><p class="p1">It’s selfish and undutiful and all the things he would be scolded for, if – if they were here. Neal doesn’t care. See the previous point.</p><p class="p1">He puts the bowl of sick down, and runs out of the breakfast room, up the stairs to his room, and locks himself in, grabbing book after book of the shelves until there is a stack almost a foot and a half tall on his desk.</p><p class="p1">He takes a deep breath, sits down in his chair, and grabs the topmost book off the stack, ignoring the sound of his sister knocking on the door.</p><p class="p1">He can’t. He can’t. He can’t do this.</p><p class="p1">Hiding like a coward it is.</p>
<hr/><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p1">The sun has set by the time that the shutters bang open, with a blaze of dark green magic. His mother and his sister climb in. His sister looks worried. His mother looks sad, amused, and angry, all at the same time.</p><p class="p1">She strides over to his desk, hauls him up out of the chair, and gently shakes him by the shoulders, the gesture that’s meant: <em>pay attention, before you get yourself killed</em>, ever since he was toddling. Automatically, he feels his back straighten, and he looks her in the eye.</p><p class="p1">(Haryses <em>always</em> look someone in the eye.)</p><p class="p1">“I know you’re hurt,” she says, general-blunt. “I know it’ll never stop hurting, and I know you think life is going to be wrong from now on. And it will be. For all of us, although maybe it will lessen years from now. But Neal, love, we don’t get to hide from reality.”</p><p class="p1">The tears that he’s been keeping at bay with ink and paper all day are slipping free, at the acknowledgement of reality, and Mama lets him cry. She lets him cry on her shoulder until there are no tears left, and she kisses his hair when he’s done.</p><p class="p1">And then, after a long moment, she hands him a handkerchief.</p><p class="p1">“Come on,” she says. “You need to eat something.”</p>
<hr/><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p1">Papa comes home, two days later, and he pulls Neal into a crushing hug the moment he sees him. Neal feels tears in his eyes, and buries his face in his father’s shoulder.</p><p class="p1">They stand like that, for a long, long time, until Baird has to sit down for his injury. Mama shoos them into the sitting room, and Baird collapses into his arm-chair, and beckons Jessamine and Neal over, gesturing to the ground in front of his chair.</p><p class="p1">Jessamine takes it eagerly. Neal remains frozen in the doorway of the sitting room.</p><p class="p1">He wants to sit at Papa’s feet again. It was where he and Jessamine had always sat, second-youngest and youngest. He wants to be there again, with Graeme in the other big arm-chair, and Cathal lounging on the loveseat, and Mama in her rocking chair.</p><p class="p1">But he isn’t the second-youngest anymore.</p><p class="p1">His feet feeling heavy as stones, Neal stumbles over, into the arm-chair that Graeme used to sit in. A flood of expressions sweep through his father’s face: confusion, anger, realisation…</p><p class="p1">Pain.</p><p class="p1">Papa closes his eyes, and lets his breath out slowly.</p><p class="p1">When he opens them again, he leans over and cards his fingers through Neal’s hair, and then leans down and rubs Jessamine’s shoulder gently.</p><p class="p1">“I assume I’ve missed a lot,” their father says, his voice as soft as his touch. “Tell me everything.”</p><p class="p1">And so they start to tell him, about what has happened in Corus, until their rivers of words run dry.</p>
<hr/><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p1">The funerals are quiet remembrances at the Queenscove townhouse, on the 23<span class="s1"><sup>rd</sup></span> of January. It is packed to the rafters, because everyone from the Haryse, haMinch or Masbolle branches in Corus attends.</p><p class="p1">(Neal is grateful, so <em>grateful</em> that Dom’s blue eyes hold no pity, because otherwise, he would have to punch him, and he can’t stand to think of punching anyone related to him right now.)</p><p class="p1">They dedicate the first half of one day to Graeme, and the second to Cathal.</p><p class="p1">Letters have trickled in, over the month, as the news makes its way through the military grapevine. Letters from peers, from teachers, from regular Army soldiers and Queen's Riders and members of the King's Own. Person after person shares their memories of a joke, a smile, a laugh. A practice bout, a helping hand with a heavy load. A mischievous lesson from Cathal; Graeme's powerful left hook. The elders of the family read them all aloud, one at a time, and Neal is fighting back tears by the fifth missive.</p><p class="p1">They were his brothers, <em>his</em>, and it will never stop hurting, and they were so very loved by seemingly everyone they met. And there are so many <em>never will</em>s, he realises.</p><p class="p1">He will never see Graeme married; he was betrothed to a girl from Blue Harbour, but he will never marry her.</p><p class="p1">He will never be teased by Cathal about it again, nor will Cathal stand as Graeme’s best man, or Neal’s, nor vice versa.</p><p class="p1">They will never, as three brothers, gang up to give a playfully intimidating welcome to whomever Jessamine chooses.</p><p class="p1">They will never find out if Graeme would thrive looking after the estate, or chafe at it.</p><p class="p1">They will never discover whether Cathal would decide to pursue further training for his Gift, or if would be content with what he had already learned.</p><p class="p1">They will never see him ride a griffin or rescue a princess, as he’d solemnly informed Neal that he would, when he had been nine, and Neal had been four.</p><p class="p1">Cathal was only knighted last Midwinter.</p><p class="p1">This last realisation makes Neal feel chill all over, and somewhere in the back of his mind, a part of him realises that: this is it, this is one of those moments, after which your life is never the same. </p><p class="p1">“You alright?” Dom asks him, out of the corner of his mouth, his voice low.</p><p class="p1">Neal’s reply is raspy. “As much as I can be.”</p><p class="p1">He still does not believe in polite lies.</p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“Why did you become a knight?” he asks Papa, on the 26<span class="s1"><sup>th</sup></span> of January, as they wash their hands in the Palace infirmary together. He’s just watched his father ease broken lungs, arms, and legs, with the same steady, practical hand that Neal’s always seen in his work.</p><p class="p1">It is only now that they are at war that Neal really notices the sword at his father’s hip, and remembers that his father studied as a page, a squire, and then, when his paint was still wet on his shield, had obtained permission from Jasson the Conqueror himself to study at the Imperial University in Carthak.</p><p class="p1">Papa smiles, dry and sharp. “Oh, there was never any question that I would do otherwise. There has always been a Queenscove knight, after all. Legacy, and all that.</p><p class="p1">He cracks his neck from side to side. “But a wise man listens, when the Goddess tells him not to waste the gifts the gods have given him. So, as soon as I could get my things in order, I begged King Jasson's permission to study in Carthak. I quite scandalised my own parents, but they recovered. And I really have no regrets.”</p><p class="p1">“Do you ever wish you hadn’t trained as a knight?” asks Neal. “You could have gone to Carthak younger.”</p><p class="p1">Papa shakes his head, smiling. “No, I don’t. I did in the early years of my training, but then I found that the training I’d done as a knight helped me as a healer. I’ve stopped believing in wasted time. And, more practically speaking, a healer who can survive walking into a fight is a healer who’s that much closer to the wounded.” He blinks, then looks at Neal intently. “Why do you ask, son?”</p><p class="p1">“I was just wondering,” Neal says, defensively, feeling the paper-thinness of the excuse.</p><p class="p1">Papa raises his eyebrows, and says nothing.</p><p class="p1">Neal keeps looking back, feeling his face set, and crossing his arms.</p><p class="p1">Papa sighs. “Just tell me when you’re ready, son.” He claps Neal on the shoulder, and keeps his arm there. “No point standing about. Let’s get some lunch while we can.”</p><p class="p1">Neal nods, and follows his father to the kitchens, Papa’s arm around his shoulder, the notion of a legacy still rolling around in his head.</p><p class="p1"><em>There has always been a Queenscove knight.</em> </p>
<hr/><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p1">Neal argues with himself. A great deal.</p><p class="p1">It’s a quirk that his tutors and teachers at the Royal University deplore, because, in his final exasperation, Neal often ends up rejecting the question’s framing, rather than picking a side.</p><p class="p1">It’s a quirk that confuses his classmates, who never understand why he can’t just let part of the story alone.</p><p class="p1">It’s a quirk that, bless Mithros and the Goddess, his family indulges, and always has. So that night, in the courtyard of the townhouse, with the snow still falling and his cloak warm on his shoulders, Neal paces and argues with himself.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>There’s always been a Queenscove knight.</em>
</p><p class="p1">“I’ve never wanted to be one!”</p><p class="p1"><em>But that was when I was the youngest son, when I knew I wasn't the heir or the spare. That was when I knew that I would never </em>have<em> to be a knight.</em></p><p class="p1">“I’ve never liked fighting,” he says, weakly.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Does that mean I have a choice? Jessamine doesn't. She never wanted to learn the sword, but she has to, now. Tortall is under siege; we need every fighter we can get.</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em> The practice courts aren’t about showing off anymore. They’re about survival.</em>
</p><p class="p1">“I’ll be too old to start.”</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Papa started training at the Imperial University when he was older.</em>
</p><p class="p1">Neal groans, and runs his hands through his hair. More than anything, he wishes his brothers were here right now. He wishes for Cathal’s cheerful optimism, and Graeme’s stern cool-headedness. When Neal argued, with his cynicism and passion both, they balanced him.</p><p class="p1">And that’s the rub, that’s the issue, <em>that’s</em> what this boils down to.</p><p class="p1">Cathal and Graeme aren’t here.</p><p class="p1">Graeme and Cathal are not here.</p><p class="p1">Papa might not believe in wasted time, but that’s all Neal can see. The years ahead that should have belonged to them, the years that they will never have, the life that was cut short, before Cathal was even of age, and Graeme was only just barely so.</p><p class="p1">Graeme and Cathal are not here, and the only shoulders left to carry the legacy of Queenscove knights are Neal’s.</p><p class="p1"><em>Girls are allowed to train as knights,</em> that inner contrarian of his pipes up, and Neal swears, loud and foul, because no. <em>No.</em> He knows that Jessamine could, and that’s not the point. Neal is not going to dump <em>his</em> duty on <em>his baby sister,</em> of all people<em>.</em></p><p class="p1">He catches his breath, and the decision he has made settles in his mind, soft and cold, like the snow falling onto his cloak.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>I need to leave the university.</em>
</p><p class="p1">It <em>hurts</em>, even the thought of leaving his life there. The halls filled with argument and debate, his classmates who come from every walk of life in the realm and outside of it, his studies in healing and illusions. It hurts like a dagger between the ribs.</p><p class="p1">Neal thinks of Graeme, taking out two ogres before they could reach the King, of Cathal dying on a Stormwing’s razor wing, and he clenches his hands into fists.</p><p class="p1">Is he really going to protest, in the middle of a <em>war</em>, that duty isn’t painful?</p>
<hr/><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p1">It takes a week and a day of intense conversations with his father, who is horrified; three days with his mother, who is surprised and concerned and uncomfortable, not because she does not understand, but because she does. It takes several more conversations, in the same week and a day, with aunts, uncles and assorted meddling clan elders.</p><p class="p1">The only people who don’t object, seemingly, are:</p><p class="p1">1. Uncle Glaisdan. Rather than look surprised or concerned, he gives Neal a look of approval. Neal is abruptly, momentarily, seized by a fervent desire to find a tradition, any tradition, and upend it in front of his uncle, as a matter of principle.</p><p class="p1">2. Cousin Domitan. When Neal tells Dom, Dom wraps an arm around his shoulder, and, after a long moment, tells Neal: “I’m going to enrol in the King’s Own.”</p><p class="p1">3. Jessamine. When Neal stands in the doorway of her room, and tells her, “Jessa, I’m going to become a page,” her face is white and terribly drawn for a moment.</p><p class="p1">He steps forward and wraps her in a hug, and Jessamine hugs back, so hard that Neal’s ribs hurt.</p><p class="p1">She says, a hitch in her voice: “I guess you’ll have to stop fighting dirty, then.”</p><p class="p1">Neal smiles and shakes his head. “Never,” he tells her, solemnly. “I’m planning on being a knight, not a hero.”</p><p class="p1">“Good,” she says, her voice hitching, as their minds both flash to their heroes, their brothers. “We need you, you know.”</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2">On February the 4<span class="s1"><sup>th</sup></span>, Nealan of Queenscove formally withdraws from the Royal University.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. on unstoppable forces (First Test)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>There is no such thing as an unstoppable force or an immovable object. Neal knows this. He knows master after master has proven intellectually that there can’t be any such thing as either. Both are as impossible as square circles.</p><p>Clearly, none of those masters ever met this girl. </p><p>Or: <em>First Test</em>, from Neal’s perspective.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Lots of dialogue taken from <em> First Test. </em> My plan is for this series to get increasingly divergent from canon as we move further down the timeline; for the purposes of this chapter, it's almost identical to canon, except where I've fiddled with the dialogue in parts to make it sound a little more natural to my ear. </p><p>Obviously, I own none of it, dialogue, settings, characters and all. All credit is due to Tammy; I'm just playing in the sandbox. Same notes of credits should go to those I mentioned in the previous chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p2">Neal starts page training in April.</p><p class="p2">It is, quite simply, hell.</p><p class="p2">Not because of the physical work; not because, although his swordsmanship is actually more than adequate, Neal is thoroughly trounced in the early auditions by boys a year or two younger than him, with the lance, the bow, axe-work, and hand-to-hand combat. No, Neal <em>expected</em> that.</p><p class="p2">Not because of the academics. It rapidly becomes obvious that, aside from etiquette and mathematics, Neal is at the same level of most of the third-year pages. </p><p class="p2">(Mother gives him a knowing look when he grumbles about algebra, and goes to dig out some of her old textbooks from when she studied at the Imperial University in Carthak.) </p><p class="p2">No, page training is hell, not because of the work, but because of the man that Neal has decided will forever be <em>the Stump</em> to him. The man who has been complaining about change ever since Queen Thayet’s coronation; who seems to desire, above all, to prove himself as unmoving as a coppiced tree.</p><p class="p2">The man insists on rigid punctuality, rigid courtesy, everything except rigid table manners. His approach to knight training has the smaller boys hopelessly bowed under classwork that they can’t possibly finish in time, and then he heaps <em>more</em> work – punishment duties in the armoury, or scouring pots, and so on – for them, in what has to be the most illogical punishment that Neal has ever seen.</p><p class="p2">(Neal stops arguing him with him about this in May, when his body finally insists that sleep is even more important than speaking truth to someone who will always refuse to listen, no matter how many times he hears it.)</p><p class="p2">The man’s an utter traditionalist, except when it comes to the small insanities– excuse Neal, <em>modifications </em>– which he likes to invent and inflict on them. He doesn’t seem to consider that other people might like to invent small insanities of their own.</p><p class="p2">In the Royal University, an explanation for when something goes wrong is vital. It might lead to a new hypothesis, unravelling an old assumption, and, above all else, if something’s gone horribly wrong, it might tell you how to prevent it from happening <em>again</em>.</p><p class="p2">In page training, an explanation is an excuse, and an excuse makes you unworthy.</p><p class="p2">In the Royal University, if you are overextended or confused, you <em>must</em> speak up, and do so immediately. An overextended mage is a stressed mage, and – especially when you’re aged somewhere between nine and fifteen – a stressed mage is prone to <em>reacting</em> with their Gift, instead of usingit.</p><p class="p2">In page training, if you are overextended, you must keep silent and be <em>further</em> overextended.</p><p class="p2"><em>How did Graeme </em><b><em>live</em></b><em> like this?</em> Neal can only wonder, with only a pang of loss and longing for his brother, before the dawn bell and the thundering of footsteps as the pages wake up makes it clear that he has no more time to dwell on his grief.</p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">There is no such thing as an unstoppable force or an immovable object. Neal knows this. He knows master after master has proven intellectually that there can’t be any such thing as an unstoppable force, or an immovable object, no more than there can be a square circle.</p><p class="p2">(But people had once said, too, of the Immortals who wreak <em>very</em> real havoc and damage on the realm, “there’s no such thing.”)</p><p class="p2">At the very start of his year as a first-year page, Neal thinks that he should inform the Royal University there is <em>definitely</em> such a thing as an immovable object.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> Two which he can name without even blinking. </span></p><p class="p2">The pages' wing, and the Stump who rules it.</p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Let’s back up a little, shall we?</p><p class="p2">Keladry of Mindelan is a girl. Shocking, isn’t it?</p><p class="p2">And for <em>some reason</em>, seemingly every boy in the pages’ wing, aside from the Prince, has decided that this means they can be cruel, misogynistic bullies.</p><p class="p2">Neal looks at the girl, as the Stump asks for a sponsor for her.</p><p class="p2">She’s tall. Five feet, built strongly, and quite balanced on her feet, like she already spends a lot of time riding, shooting, and training with weapons. Her hair is cropped short around her jaw, and her face is composed, even as she blinks at the assembled through long, light brown lashes. Not a playful flutter of eyelashes, but a slow, steady blink, like you might see from a cat eyeing a bird.</p><p class="p2">Neal feels a smile quirking at his lips. She’ll need that if she’s to leave here with her sanity intact.</p><p class="p2">She doesn’t seem frightened at all, let alone hurt, when Zahir says, coolly: “Girls have no business in the affairs of men. This one should go home.”</p><p class="p2"><em>Do you tell your mother that?</em> Neal thinks, unimpressed with that logic. As though any people can live with the two halves of its population inhabiting entirely separate worlds; as though any culture can thrive, with half its population not allowed to step outside of a very narrow circle.</p><p class="p2">The Stump, of course, rebuts with tradition and power, not logic: “We are not among the Bazhir tribes, Zahir ibn Alhaz. Moreover, I requested a sponsor, not an opinion.”</p><p class="p2">The travesty continues. Joren of Stone Mountain offers to sponsor the girl. Neal feels his hands clench into fists. Joren is a classic bully; polite to those in power, sadistic to those without. He won’t just try and convince Keladry that she doesn’t belong here. He’ll try and <em>break</em> her, mind and body, spirit and heart, just because he can, because there is something in Joren that <em>pulses</em> with hate towards women.</p><p class="p2">Even the Stump, rigid and conservative and horrified to the bone at the norms being overturned today, seems to think that it’s unsuitable. “I had hoped for a different sponsor,” he says, stiffly. “You should employ your spare hours in the improvement of your classwork and your riding skills.”</p><p class="p2">Neal is hard put to keep from rolling his eyes. Mithros, he should have known better to assume fairness from the Stump. Of course this is about honing his precious, most promising protégé, rather than–</p><p class="p2">Someone else, stating the obvious at last, hisses: “I thought Joren hated–”</p><p class="p2">“Shut up!” someone else whispers back.</p><p class="p2"><em>Yes</em>, Neal thinks, feeling his temper at the whole situation rise. <em>Yes, Joren </em>does<em> hate. Especially women and girls who don’t know their place</em>.</p><p class="p2">Court has never been fair, never been kind, but this is too much like torture. Keladry is looking at the flagstones under her feet, as Joren and the Stump maintain eye contact, somehow excluded and singled out.</p><p class="p2">Everyone is talking <em>about</em> her, not to her. How humiliating that must be.</p><p class="p2">Somehow, she raises her head and her face schools to blankness.</p><p class="p2">How can she hide the rage she must be feeling?</p><p class="p2">“I believe I can perfect my studies <em>and</em> sponsor the girl,” Joren says, smooth as glass, like always, and Neal really does wish he was close enough to punch him. “And since I am the only volunteer–”</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Not for long, you’re not.</em>
</p><p class="p2">“I suppose I’m being rash and peculiar <em>again</em>,” he drawls, half to the sensible inner self who is shrieking at him about self-preservation and having enough trouble on his plate already, half to everyone else.</p><p class="p2">Because really, that’s the thing. He’s already an oddity. Nothing will ever make him <em>less</em> of an oddity. At least he can prevent Joren from having complete free rein in breaking this girl.</p><p class="p2">He continues, sarcasm dripping from his voice: “But if it means helping my friend Joren improve his studies, well, I’ll just have to sacrifice myself. There’s nothing I won’t do to further the cause of book-learning among my peers.”</p><p class="p2">He’s not going to do Keladry any favours if he tries pointing out how<em> unfair and cruel</em> the pages are collectively being to her.</p><p class="p2">Everyone turns to face him.</p><p class="p2">Half the pages are looking at him like he’s gone mad. Scratch that, at least three-quarters of them.</p><p class="p2">The ones who don’t are standing out like sore thumbs: Prince Roald, who looks relieved; Cleon of Kennan, looking oddly thoughtful; Faleron of King’s Reach, who’s regarding Neal with a raised eyebrow; and Yancen of Irenroha, who just looks amused.</p><p class="p2">The Stump rubs at his arm. “You volunteer, Nealan of Queenscove?”</p><p class="p2">Some combination of the <em>utter injustice</em> that this situation is, along with his disliked full name, makes Neal give a jerky, unnecessary bow, and say: “That I do, your worship, sir.”</p><p class="p2">Malicious exaggeration of formality is <em>always</em> the best way to get under the Stump’s skin, but his reaction is disappointingly bland.</p><p class="p2">“A sponsor should be a page in his second year at least. And you will mind your tongue.”</p><p class="p2">That objection is easily rebutted, and Neal feels his temper rise further at the Stump treating him, once more, like a horse that needs to be broken to bridle.</p><p class="p2">“I know I only joined this little band in April, your lordship,” he says, not bothering to keep the taunt out of his voice. The Stump’s rank is proper, but he’s acting like a <em>shameful</em> lord right now. Neal hopes he treats Cavall better, at least. “But I have lived at court almost all my fifteen years. I know the palace and its ways. And unlike Joren, I need not worry about my academics.”</p><p class="p2">The Stump’s eyebrows snap together in a most promising way. “You have been told to mind your manners, Page Nealan. I will have an apology for your insolence.”</p><p class="p2">He will not, and Neal’s surprised he doesn’t know that by now. Neal bows, deeply. “An apology for general insolence, your lordship? Or some specific offence?”</p><p class="p2">It’s so much fun baiting Lord Wyldon. Neal really does feel like he’s flying, when he does it.</p><p class="p2">“One week scrubbing pots,” the Stump says, flat. “Be silent.”</p><p class="p2">Neal throws out his arm, beginning to enjoy himself now. “How can I apologise and yet be silent?”</p><p class="p2">He and the Stump go back and forth, until Neal has three weeks scrubbing pots, and a small voice pipes up:</p><p class="p2">“I can learn it on my own.”</p><p class="p2">Everyone turns to Keladry, who is standing there, her arms by her side, colour in her cheeks, but otherwise, still looking remarkably calm.</p><p class="p2">“What did you say?” the Stump asks, as though unsure he has heard correctly.</p><p class="p2">“I’ll find my way on my own,” the girl says, and only the shift of her feet tells Neal that she is quite nervous about that prospect. But her voice is steady, as she says, her eyes flicking to him and meeting his for only a heartbeat before she looks back to Lord Wyldon: “No-one has to show me. I’ll probably learn better, poking around.”</p><p class="p2">The corner of her mouth twitches as she says this, but otherwise, her face is smooth, as though what she’s just said – “nobody has to show me” – makes perfect sense.</p><p class="p2">Neal stares at her.</p><p class="p2">She’s ten years old. She’s going to be faced with hatred and hostilities and hurt from all sides, and – if he hasn’t misread her entirely–</p><p class="p2">She is worried about <em>him</em> getting himself deeper into trouble.</p><p class="p2">“When I require your opinion–” the Stump begins, his tone angry.</p><p class="p2">Well, Neal’s never had much of a sense of self-preservation.</p><p class="p2">“It’s no trouble,” he interrupts, looking at her and catching her eyes. “None at all, Demoiselle Keladry.” The address is archaic, but <em>somebody</em> ought to show a little respect for her.</p><p class="p2">He looks to the Stump. “My lord, I apologise for my wicked tongue and my dreadful manners. I will do my best not to encourage her to follow my example.” He can’t entirely convey sincerity – he’s always been a terrible liar – but he’s hit the appropriate degree of formality, at least.</p><p class="p2">The Stump opens his mouth, closes it again, and breathes in, before saying, at last: “You are her sponsor, then. Now. Enough time has been wasted on foolishness. Supper.”</p><p class="p2">He leads the other pages out, and Neal lingers with Keladry. He takes her in for another long moment. She doesn’t seem upset, amazingly enough. Confused, if he’s reading the furrow in her brow and the way she’s staring at him right. But not upset.</p><p class="p2">“Believe me,” Neal tells her, “you wouldn’t have liked Joren as your sponsor. He’d drive you out in a week. With me, at least you might last a while, even if I am at the bottom of Lord Wyldon’s list. Come on.”</p><p class="p2">It is, after all, supper time, and he’s hungry.</p><p class="p2">Halfway down the hall, he realises there are no trotting footsteps accompanying him. He turns around.</p><p class="p2">Keladry <em>has not moved</em> an inch. What in the Goddess’ many names? Didn’t she hear the Stump say it was suppertime?</p><p class="p2">He sighs and beckons to her.</p><p class="p2">She <em>does not move.</em></p><p class="p2">At his wits’ end, he walks back up to her. “What part of ‘come on’ was unclear, page?” He’s being more than a little rude, and that grates at him, but it’s <em>supper.</em> That’s sacred and, more to the point, vital.</p><p class="p2">“Why do you care if I last a week or longer?” she demands, and he blinks, disconcerted. Her manner is utterly blunt, as though she’s not five years younger than him, as though she isn’t asking a question that no sensible first-year would ever ask their sponsor.</p><p class="p2">She continues: “Queenscove is a ducal house. Mindelan is just a barony, and a new one at that. Nobody cares about Mindelan. We aren’t related, and our fathers aren’t friends,” she draws a breath, as she finally finishes the list of reasons that nobles normally have for looking out for each other. “So who am I to you?”</p><p class="p2">She’s looking at him, her gaze direct and unrepentant. Neal has a sudden, amazingly uncomfortable sensation of pinned down, and his intuition informs him: he will <em>never</em> be able to lie to this girl. Ever.</p><p class="p2">So he chooses his second-best option: deflection. “Direct little thing, aren’t you?”</p><p class="p2">Keladry waits, unmoving, silent, her gaze boring into him. Waiting with the silent patience of a general. Waiting, waiting.</p><p class="p2">After another few moments, Neal internally concedes defeat. Fine.</p><p class="p2">He runs a hand through his hair, sighing, as he thinks about how to explain, and how <em>odd</em> that question is. There are a few things very clear about her already: she is determined, she is tough, she is <em>proud</em>. Any answer that has a whisper of pity will probably enrage her.</p><p class="p2">But it wasn’t pity that made him stick his hand up, really. It was the unfairness of it all.</p><p class="p2">“Look – you heard me say I’ve lived at court all my life, right?” he says, marshalling his thoughts together, and then he lays them out, one by one. As he speaks, Keladry’s face relaxes, and there’s a hint of pleased surprise in her face, when he finishes with the bleeding obvious: she deserves a fair chance.</p><p class="p2">“Can we go and eat now?” he demands, and thankfully, this time, she moves with him.</p><p class="p2">When they finally have gotten food onto his plates, his manners return with the proximity to food, and he asks her if he should call her Keladry.</p><p class="p2">“No,” she says, as they walk over to one of the tables. “Everyone calls me Kel.”</p><p class="p2">He smiles. Somehow, the monosyllable suits her better.</p><p class="p2">“Kel, then.”</p><p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Neal worries about Kel.</p><p class="p2">He can’t help it. She’s a hands-width taller than Jessamine, determined, tough, strong, and everything that a knight-to-be should be.</p><p class="p2">But between April and September, there had been moments where Neal thought he might lose his <em>mind</em> from the weight of being alone. From being the only older page in the wing, from stare after stare that makes him feel like an animal in an exhibit.And Kel is the <em>only girl</em> in their cohort. Not just alone, the sole specimen, but almost universally faced with hatred: from one half of their cohort for being a girl, from the other half for being too strange, too foreign, too Yamani. (Plenty, of course, hate her for both.)</p><p class="p2">Kel, through no fault of her own, is the subject of a vendetta by the Stump, who is determined to make it clear that no girl will ever succeed as a knight, and by insecure little boys who feel threatened by her.</p><p class="p2">She never voices a single word of complaint. </p><p class="p2">If he’s completely honest with himself, that alone makes him worry about her <em>more</em>.</p><p class="p2">He does what he can. He runs to get Salma so her room can be clean, and so that she isn’t late for supper. He heals her bruised foot after he sees her limping in the mess.He summons up all his courage and takes her to Daine, his terrible crush on her notwithstanding, so that she can safely handle her brute of a horse.</p><p class="p2">The day when they start the lance, she is very obviously miserable, for some reason, and she won’t say a word as to why. Neal has only just given up on getting the reason out of her – for <em>now</em>, anyway – as they return to their rooms to get their class materials.</p><p class="p2">In the corridor, about five feet away from Neal’s room, Cleon stops Kel, with <em>that</em> grin on his face.</p><p class="p2">“Cleon, leave her be,” he says, folding his arms and glaring at the redhead. Neal knows tradition. Today, tradition can go to hell. “She’s got enough to worry about without doing your errands.”</p><p class="p2">He manages to give Cleon pause, at least, but the younger boy isn’t <em>that</em> intimidated by him. When Neal looks up from round two of the argument, he groans, seeing that Kel has already slipped away to perform the errand.</p><p class="p2">She slips into class just in front of Master Yayin, hands Cleon the ink, and drops into her seat, just as the teacher assumes his place at the front of the class.</p><p class="p2">Neal valiantly resists the urge to bang his head on the table.</p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Was Kel dropped on her head as a baby? That, or the gods have decided to make a joke out of his life. Those are the only two explanations Neal can think of, as he paces up and down his father’s infirmary, while his father examines Kel.</p><p class="p2">Her nose is obviously broken; he’ll be surprised if she can see out of that black eye; and her movements are so off in so many ways that Neal can’t begin to <em>guess</em> what other damage she’s done to herself.</p><p class="p2">Kel grins at his father, and says, “You should see the other fellows.”</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Argh.</em>
</p><p class="p2">Neal throws up his hands, looking at his father. He knows he’s being dramatic. He doesn’t care. Revisit the previous point: his protégé, already and always on thin ice, as she <em>always will be</em>, has gotten jumped by three third-year pages. And she’s <em>happy</em> about the fight.</p><p class="p2">“There! You see what I have to deal with?” he demands of his father.</p><p class="p2">“My son has an endless capacity for drama,” his father stage-whispers to Kel.</p><p class="p2"><em>Traitor</em>, Neal thinks.</p><p class="p2">But the quip makes Kel grin. Of course, the grin makes her split lip reopen.</p><p class="p2">A few minutes later, he gets to ask the <em>real</em> vexing question.</p><p class="p2">“Why in the name of all the gods in all the eastern and southern lands–” there’s no point in asking in the name of the Scanran ones, since they <em>like</em> endless fighting – “would you start a fight with them?!”</p><p class="p2">Kel sighs and gives a minuscule shrug. “I didn’t like the shape of Joren’s nose.”</p><p class="p2">
  <em>…are you out of your mind, Kel?!</em>
</p><p class="p2">But because this <em>is</em> Kel – Kel, who has become his <em>friend</em> here in such a short time, Kel, friendly and clever and oddly optimistic, Kel, <em>who somehow hasn’t learned to stop getting her hopes up –</em> Neal tries to introduce a touch of reality to the situation.</p><p class="p2">“If you meant to impress the Stump–” because generous hypotheses are important, though honestly, he can’t imagine why <em>this</em> would, “you wasted your time. Don’t you realise he’ll never let you stay?”</p><p class="p2">Kel looks down, her face going soft and then terribly still for a moment.</p><p class="p2"><em>She looks as though I just kicked a puppy</em>, he thinks, a knot forming in his stomach.</p><p class="p2">“He could change his mind.” Her voice is smaller than it normally is, and his heart, that small, soft place inside him that has not yet turned into solid stone from war and death and pain, aches, hearing it. “You always think the worst of him.”</p><p class="p2">“I <em>what?”</em> he squawks defensively. After he argues the point for a minute, his father sighs, and gives him a stern look, making a shooing gesture towards the door.</p><p class="p2">“If you cannot be quiet while I <em>work</em>, go into the waiting room.”</p><p class="p2">Neal remembers, abruptly, that Kel is still injured, and marches himself out to the waiting room, to have a proper worry-and-hissy fit.</p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">By the time Midwinter comes around, he is still worried about her. He can’t make up his mind about whether she’s brave or foolish for getting into a fight for Merric’s sake.</p><p class="p2">She’s come late to dinner once, towards the end of December, and Neal curses himself for not seeing whatever act of sabotage delayed her, but she shows up without any fresh bruises or injuries, and that’s a small relief.</p><p class="p2">It’s <em>Kel</em>, and she deserves to be here, she deserves to be a warrior.</p><p class="p2">He slips a book into Salma’s hands; a compilation of the histories of the Lady Knights of Tortall. Every last one of them.</p><p class="p2">“You’ll watch,” she tells him, at breakfast that day. “I’ll do so well he’ll have to let me stay.”</p><p class="p2">Neal looks at her, her mouth stubborn, her eyes set. For all that she comes only to his chest, she’s a miniature juggernaut. More than that, this girl – he realises with some shock – has become his best friend.</p><p class="p2">For her sake, then, he bridles his cynicism and passes her a tray. “A new wish for a new year,” he says, hoping that his voice doesn’t sound too gentle. “So mote it be.”</p><p class="p2">“So mote,” he hears her echo, in a whisper.</p>
<hr/><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p2">In late January, Kel gets hauled up before the Stump again. Along with – surprise, surprise – Vinson and Joren.</p><p class="p2">Neal pinches the bridge of his nose, when he sees her at breakfast that day, with a cut on her cheek, and a fresh black eye. He ruminates and stews the whole day, and tells her, flatly, as they sit down for supper that night, “You’re studying with Roald and me tonight.”</p><p class="p2">Kel cocks her head to the side, the motion quizzical, and then winces. Neal’s hands itch to soothe the pain and dizziness, but they’re in the mess hall, and there’s no point in attracting the Stump’s attention.</p><p class="p2">“I am?” she echoes.</p><p class="p2">“<em>Yes,”</em> Neal says. Gods bless their Crown Prince; Roald just nods firmly, even though this is news to him as much as it is to Kel.</p><p class="p2">Kel eyes them both. “Why? You always say you’re fine with your classwork. Are you having trouble with mathematics or something?”</p><p class="p2"><em>“Yes,”</em> Neal says, hearing the desperate edge in his own voice. He’s a terrible liar, but if a lie will keep Kel safe and studying with him and Roald tonight, lie he will.</p><p class="p2">“Alright, then,” Kel says, a doubtful note in her voice. “I don’t know how much use I’ll be, but I’ll help.”</p><p class="p2"><em>Thank you, Mithros and the Goddess</em>, Neal thinks, as he stabs down into his meat with more force than necessary, and Roald tactfully changes the subject.</p><p class="p2">That night, Faleron of King’s Reach and Seaver of Tasride knock on Neal’s open door.</p><p class="p2">“I need help with mathematics,” Seaver says, and Neal feels like cheering. Two victories: Kel will stay and help Seaver, and Neal can stop playing the fool, and finish his own classwork.</p><p class="p2">Perhaps we should form a group, Neal thinks, as Faleron starts asking him about a paper for Sir Myles’ class. </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">They do. Kel keeps driving him mad with worry anyway.</p><p class="p2">Once an evening, usually after everyone had been set to right with their maths, she gets up and leaves her spot with the other first-years in his room. Most nights, she returns, red-cheeked, catching her breath, and never with an explanation.</p><p class="p2">But at least one night in a week, Kel gets hauled up before the Stump, with Joren, and some combination of his cronies.</p><p class="p2">The knots in Neal’s stomach get tighter with every passing week.</p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">His patience finally snaps on February 14<span class="s1"><sup>th</sup></span>.</p><p class="p2">Their little study group is in his room, as usual. Kel and a few of the first-years working on mathematics; Roald and Faleron working on history; Cleon, utterly frustrated by the paper he and Neal have to write for Master Yayin.</p><p class="p2">Neal is halfway through his explanation of why the paper really isn’t that bad when he sees movement in the corner of his eye. Kel, stretching and getting to her feet, before she turns and walks out of the room.</p><p class="p2">Neal takes a deep breath for calm – his temper is always quick, but seeing red never actually helps, even if it’s cathartic – and gets to his feet.</p><p class="p2">“Do excuse me, Cleon.”</p><p class="p2">He follows Kel out of the room and closes the door behind him.</p><p class="p2">“I’d like a word,” he says.</p><p class="p2">“I’ll be right back,” she says, and her calm voice is what sends him over the edge, what turns his half-planned script flying out his head completely, because <em>how dare she look this calm</em> when he’s going out of his mind with worry?</p><p class="p2">“Keep your voice down!” she says, nervous and harsh, after he accuses her of looking for trouble.</p><p class="p2">“<em>Why?”</em> he asks her, low and fierce, and he can feel anger and emotion making his face burn. “You don’t seem to care if you get caught!”</p><p class="p2">She sighs, as though utterly exasperated, and that’s not fair, that’s how <em>he’s</em> feeling, with this whole situation, with this girl who seems <em>hellbent</em> on not keeping her head down and making her life harder.</p><p class="p2">“That’s not it at all.”</p><p class="p2">“Then what <em>is</em> it?” he demands, because he’s out of patience, out of ideas, out of everything except for frantic worry for his friend. “Are you some kind of – of tavern tough who just likes to brawl?”</p><p class="p2">The words are ridiculous, and he knows it, even as he says them. Kel just shakes her head, not even giving him a smile. “Hardly, since I lose all the time.”</p><p class="p2">“Then what is it? I want to know!” he cries, temper and volume rising and making his voice crack. “I’m your <em>friend</em>, Kel! And what you’re doing worries me sick!”</p><p class="p2">“This isn’t the time or the place–”</p><p class="p2">“It is if I say it is,” he tells her, folding his arms, utterly furious from worry now. “I mean it, Kel. I swear by Mithros, if you try to leave right now, I’ll call the servants out right now. I’ll tell the Stump.”</p><p class="p2">Kel looks at him for a long moment, running her fingers through her hair, and Neal sees on her face the moment when she thinks: <em>you would, too.</em></p><p class="p2">After a long moment, she sighs and speaks. “It’s that earning-your-way custom.” Her voice is serious, the same tone she has when she explains a piece of Yamani etiquette, and Neal takes a deep breath, and forces himself to <em>listen</em>.</p><p class="p2">“The ones where the older boys make us do their errands. It’s stupid and it wastes time. That’s bad enough.” Kel’s fists clench.” But what Joren does, and his friends – they take it way too far. They use it to bully the first-years, and that’s just plain wrong.”</p><p class="p2">Neal stares at her, crossing his arms over his chest.</p><p class="p2">She looks back, her eyes level and determined.</p><p class="p2">“Oh, wonderful,” he says, incredulity making his voice quiet. “You’re on a <em>hero’s quest to get rid of bullies.”</em></p><p class="p2">She glares at him, and for once, her eyes are angry. “Someone has to!”</p><p class="p2">Neal wants to shake her. Instead, making his voice knife-sharp, he asks her, “And if this wish of yours is so <em>glorious</em>, why haven’t you asked anyone to join you? Hm? We’re all would-be knights, aren’t we? If you aren’t just enjoying the fights, Kel, <em>why not ask for help?”</em></p><p class="p2">Her hands go onto her hips, and she cries: “Because I had no reason to think I would get it!” </p><p class="p2">Neal sucks in his breath between his teeth, feeling a pain in his stomach as though she’s punched him there, before a third voice cries: “What?”</p><p class="p2">Automatically, he turns to the new voice, even as another voice hisses, “Merric, you <em>dolt</em>.”</p><p class="p2">They have eavesdroppers, he realises, with grim amusement. The entire study group, in fact, standing in the doorway of his room, looking abashed and indignant, all at once.</p><p class="p2">Merric is flushed, as he stammers: “But – well, she as good as said we agree with Joren and his pack.”</p><p class="p2">Kel looks at Merric, her eyes solemn, quizzical, considering. She runs her gaze over each of the boys in turn, and Neal sees them squirm under her general’s stare. He’d feel sympathy, except that he’s still reeling from her earlier words.</p><p class="p2"><em>Because I had no reason to think that I would get it.</em> </p><p class="p2">Has he been that terrible a friend?</p><p class="p2">“None of you ever spoke against it,” Kel says at last. “Even when it was you being picked on–” she looks at Merric and Seaver – “once it was over, you didn’t say how it wasn’t right, and ought to be stopped. You just came here to Neal’s room, to work with the group. I figured I was the only one here who thought it was all wrong. I thought maybe I saw it different because I’m a girl. <em>I</em> could do something about it, but I didn’t think you would.”</p><p class="p2">Neal whirls around to face the wall, feeling near hysterical from the tidal wave of emotion.</p><p class="p2">Gods curse it, what an <em>indictment</em>. All the more terrible for being spoken in Kel’s soft, careful voice. <em>I thought I was the only one here who thought it was all wrong.</em></p><p class="p2">And she’s been <em>right</em> to think it, he realises, his stomach dropping out. <em>Right.</em> Because – because <em>tacitly accepting it as the way things are, </em>and putting their heads down and getting on with classwork…</p><p class="p2">Effectively says: it’s not a problem worth dealing with in the first place.</p><p class="p2">He runs his fingers through his hair, dazed, only half-listening to the arguments. Cleon protests, talking about tradition. And Kel…</p><p class="p2">“So I should let this go on, because it’s always been that way?” Kel asks, sounding almost amused.</p><p class="p2">Neal lets out a soft snort, and lets his mind fly, as he turns back to the group.</p><p class="p2">He’s always been cynical, ever since a young age. Being the youngest son of a very powerful house, with much older brothers, and very sharp eyes, tends to make you that way. He’s never been impressed with the idea that tradition is sacred, that things must stay the way they are <em>because</em> they are the way they are.</p><p class="p2">But Goddess’ tears, Kel is <em>right</em>. If you live with it, if you live with something like hazing because it is the way it is, how is that different from the conservative stance – that the status quo is sacred?</p><p class="p2">It isn’t, except what you’re saying instead: <em>the status quo is too hard to change, so why even bother saying, ‘this is wrong?’</em></p><p class="p2">Kel is still talking. “Cleon sends me for papers, but someone else traps a first-year in a corner and keeps making him do stupid tasks. He’ll maybe hit the first-year to smarten him he slows down – and <em>that</em> is dead wrong.”</p><p class="p2">Her voice is louder, sharper, her breathing more ragged, fire and passion in her voice for the first time since he’s met her. “If we take this as pages, what about when we are <em>knights</em>? Do we say, oh, now I’m going to be nice to the weak and small? Or do we do as we learned when we were pages?”</p><p class="p2">Kel pauses for a moment, breathing hard, her cheeks a little flushed. She swallows, and somehow, the blazing air of ferocity and determination to set the world to rights that has been <em>radiating</em> from her retracts.</p><p class="p2">Enough that Neal can start breathing again, at least.</p><p class="p2">“I don’t mean to lecture,” Kel says again, her voice quieter now. “You can laugh and say I’m a silly girl – but when I see anyone big pick on someone small, well, there’s going to be a fight.”</p><p class="p2">She looks at Neal, determination and fire and an odd vulnerability in her eyes. “Joren and his friends are out there, looking for someone to hurt. I want to stop them.”</p><p class="p2"><em>By giving them someone else to hurt? </em>The cynical part of his mind asks.</p><p class="p2">No, he realises. No.</p><p class="p2">She means to show them that they can’t go unchallenged. That they aren’t allowed to get away with this. That they don’t get to be bullies.</p><p class="p2">That it takes more than fighting to be a knight, and that strength isn’t a licence to push around someone who has less power or strength than you.</p><p class="p2">Neal looks up and sees Kel, already down the hall and about to turn into the library corridor.</p><p class="p2">He doesn’t think. He just runs to catch up with her.</p><p class="p2">“You’re the oldest ten-year-old I’ve ever met,” he tells her.</p><p class="p2">“What does <em>that </em>mean?” she asks, exasperation in her voice.</p><p class="p2">“It means I’m trying to justify to myself the fact that the best lesson I ever had on the heart of chivalry came from someone five years younger than me. When you put it that way, I guess I’d better help,” he tells her.</p><p class="p2">“Alright, but it’s going to hurt.”</p><p class="p2">He chuckles. “You don’t have to tell me that. I see your bruises every day.”</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Who knows? Maybe I’ll feel better if I’m getting a few bruises with you.</em>
</p><p class="p2"><em>…Goddess help me, this place does drive you mad.</em> </p><p class="p2">He doesn’t care. He’s not going to let her do this alone.</p><p class="p2">Not anymore.</p>
<hr/><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">After the spidren hunt, they return to the Palace. It’s peaceful, after the horror of the hunt. On their last day, Neal somehow almost fools himself that things will be normal, that they will be <em>fine</em>, until–</p><p class="p2">“Keladry of Mindelan, report to my office at the next bell.”</p><p class="p2">Neal freezes in his seat.</p><p class="p2">This is it.</p><p class="p2">The Stump is going to send her home.</p><p class="p2">He’s tried, he really has, he’s tried so hard to keep from getting his hopes but–</p><p class="p2">But she’s fought so hard, she’s done<em> so</em> well, Mithros’ spear, she’s better at the quintain than <em>he</em> is, she’s brilliant and determined and <em>good</em>–</p><p class="p2">“You saved my life,” he hears Seaver whisper.</p><p class="p2">Kel looks at him for a moment, with awful, aching sadness in her eyes, and Neal can barely breathe.</p><p class="p2">“Have a good summer,” she whispers, picking up her tray.</p><p class="p2">She walks out of the hall, all five feet three inches of her, her shoulders hunching, but her back ramrod straight, without a backward glance.</p><p class="p2">But she can’t leave, Neal thinks, his brain frozen. This is Kel. She can’t <em>leave</em>.</p><p class="p2">And she can’t stay either.</p><p class="p2">He chokes on the two incompatible facts, and it is at this point that Roald drags Neal from the mess to let him hyperventilate in private.</p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">The pages’ wing is quiet, and so is Neal, as he quietly packs his things, for the return to Queenscove for the summer.</p><p class="p2">Roald is still in his room, hovering in the aftermath of Neal’s panic attack. With his usual thoughtfulness, though, he’s disguising the hovering by pretending to be read one of Neal’s books.</p><p class="p2">Fold this tunic. Fold these breeches. Separate the dirty from the clean. Put in his weapons-polishing kit. He’ll need another bag for any books he wants to take home. Fold yet another tunic–</p><p class="p2">“<em>Neal!”</em></p><p class="p2">Neal drops the tunic, hearing Kel’s voice in a yell, out in the hallway. He’s at the door in two steps, the Prince one step behind him.</p><p class="p2">“Roald, Seaver, Merric!” Kel continues to call. “I can stay!”</p><p class="p2">Neal stands in the doorway of his room, unable to believe what he has just heard.</p><p class="p2">Kel is running down the hallway, and she stops outside his room.</p><p class="p2">She’s <em>grinning</em> at him, smiling a wide and brilliant smile, giddy exultation in her face, as she cranes her head to look up at him. “<em>I can</em> <em>stay!”</em></p><p class="p2">At last, the sentence penetrates from his ears to his brain.</p><p class="p2">Kel can stay.</p><p class="p2">She can come back next year.</p><p class="p2">Some hybrid of a whoop and a war cry <em>bursts</em> out of his throat. Neal is moving before he can think, seizing her in a bear hug, and whirling her around, once, twice. He knows that they must be attracting stares, embarrassed ones from the servants and amused ones from their friends, and he does not care a whit.</p><p class="p2">He is too busy celebrating, for his friend, the girl who has proven that she <em>could, </em>and<em> can,</em> and <em>will</em>.</p><p class="p2">The masters are wrong, he thinks giddily, as he sets Kel down on her feet, and they both laugh like children.</p><p class="p2">The masters are wrong, at least halfway, because immovable objects <em>don’t</em> exist; the Stump has <em>bent</em>, has allowed the world to bend, and the pages’ wing has bent at least partway. Because Kel has <em>friends</em> now, and so does he; their little study group is surging around them now, jostling Kel and companionably teasing, their faces alight with joy for her. Alight with joy that she will return in the autumn.</p><p class="p2">Further up the hall, Neal sees Joren’s head poke out of his room, and a look of shock and outrage dawn on his oh-so-pretty features like a sunrise.</p><p class="p2">Neal throws back his head, and laughs, feeling like he might soar.</p><p class="p2">The masters are wrong; unstoppable forces <em>do</em> exist.</p><p class="p2">He should know. He's best friends with one.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hullo again, everyone. Putting this up because I've got much further ahead with writing the story than I expected to be, when I started this one; so you'll probably have another update soon. </p><p>If anyone's wondering, my general thoughts writing this so far have been: "good grief, Neal, you are <em>such</em> a softy, and you work SO HARD not to show it"; "Neal, do you EVER stop talking?"; and finally, "dammit, Kel, you are not going to keel over if you ask for support." </p><p>These two. I swear. asfdssffja.</p><p>Enjoy!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. on romance (Page, part one)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Neal, and the various meanings of romance. He writes poetry that he will never deliver to beauties; but you will always find him at Kel's side.</p><p>Part one of two. Set during <em>Page</em>. Canon compatible, as of this chapter.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warnings for Neal getting purple-prosey and being oblivious. The first scene is taken from <em>First Test</em>, though the rest of the chapter focusses on <em>Page</em>.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p2">In the evening of their first official day of page training, the King comes to dinner.</p><p class="p2">The first clue is that the squires, who are seated closer to the doors and have a better view of who comes through, are all on their feet and bowing.</p><p class="p2">The second clue, though, is that someone murmurs, just loud enough for everyone to hear: “The King.”</p><p class="p2">Neal gets to his feet and bows, along with the rest of the room, as the Stump and the King walk to the Stump’s table.</p><p class="p2">He’s grown up at court all his life, and his father is the Chief Healer ; it’s hardly the first time he’s met King Jonathan. But it has taken a very long time for it to sink into his head that the regal, black-haired man, who has periodically turned up for as long as he can remember, whose grin is infectious and who chats easily about sword-work, stretches and magic, is really the <em>King.</em></p><p class="p2">Ever since the realisation has started to dawn, Neal has noticed how incredibly charismatic the King is. He never has to work to call the room to pay attention to him; it happens the way an object falls, if it’s pushed off the table. It even works tonight; Neal feels annoyingly lightheaded, but he looks at the King, and knows that he will not move until the King makes it clear that he’s permitted to do so.</p><p class="p2">Thankfully, the King grins at them all, friendly and knowing. “Don’t let me keep you from your meal. I remember what it was like from my own days at those tables.”</p><p class="p2">Politely, the Stump invites the King to give the blessing, and the King does, invoking Mithros and the Mother with glorious brevity, and saying, with gentle briskness: “Now eat. After you’re done, I’d like a word.”</p><p class="p2">Neal sinks gratefully into his seat, and falls onto his meat and sweets gratefully. Slowly, the lightheaded feeling begins to retreat, as he drinks from his glass of juice. Kel doesn’t seem inclined to talk; she is eating quietly, her eyes far away. Neal doesn’t blame her; for once, even he doesn’t have energy for real conversation.</p><p class="p2">He spares a scowl for the remainder of his plate. He really, really hates the vegetables that get served from the Palace kitchens. Yes, he knows that stewed or sour cabbage and broccoli prevent problems like scurvy, gum disease, and a whole host of other unpleasant ailments. The knowing doesn’t make them taste even a <em>little</em> better.</p><p class="p2">Neal has pushed his vegetables around his plate for the third time, when the King stands and goes to the lectern once more. He makes a peremptory wave, when they collectively push their chairs back to get up.</p><p class="p2">“‘Don’t get up. If memory serves me, your legs are starting to get sore right about now.”</p><p class="p2">Neal lets out a chuff of laughter at that. The King is <em>very</em> right on that point. Neal feels like his feet have turned into lead weights.</p><p class="p2">The King smiles at them, his eyes sweeping over them, a gravity in his eyes that is at odds with his smile.</p><p class="p2">“I won’t keep you long,” he promises. “I really just wanted to look at you.” Somehow, the King shifts his body language – ever so minutely – and everyone stills, sensing the shift.</p><p class="p2">“We survived the Immortals War, as they’re calling it,” the King says, his voice more serious now. “We survived, but at a price.You know as well as I how many knights were lost, how many crippled.</p><p class="p2">“Thanks to Lord Wyldon, you older pages and squires were also able to fight, to defend our people. You did well – but I can see there are faces gone from this room who were present last autumn. We shall miss those who are gone.”</p><p class="p2">The King’s voice is softer now, as he looks through the room, making eye contact with several of the pages whose losses are known. Neal can’t look away, but he clenches his hands into fists, as the ache in his chest makes itself known once more.</p><p class="p2">“Our enemies tried to destroy us. They failed, but we are hurt. Inside these walls, I can tell you that we are hurt.” He looks directly at Neal, and Neal can’t move, can’t speak, can’t do anything except squarely meet the King’s eyes, and let him see whatever it is that he sees in there.</p><p class="p2">Neal thinks he sees a sad smile in King Jonathan’s own eyes, as he says, “Our healing will be the work of years.”</p><p class="p2">The hall takes a breath, then. Somehow, the moment shifts.</p><p class="p2">The King takes a breath, too, and continues, in his dignified, easy voice. “Most importantly, it is the work of your years. Your studies, your bruises, your saddle sores, your nights spent doing mathematics, and history, and mapmaking by candlelight. Your mastery of the arts of war, and of the laws of the realm.</p><p class="p2">“Each one of you is a gem, all the more precious because we lost so many. Combined, you are the treasure of the kingdom. Work hard, study hard, and know your value. Guard your strength, make it grow. Build your stores of learning. Do it not for yourselves or your teachers or your monarchs. Do it for the kingdom. Do it for us all.”</p><p class="p2">The King’s eyes sweep over them one last time, as he finishes speaking, while Neal’s brain is still stuck on: <em>combined, you are the treasure of the kingdom.</em></p><p class="p2">And the odd thing is, he feels it. He is sitting straighter in his own chair, his shoulders squared, his chin lifted higher.</p><p class="p2">His brothers are gone. And the King is right; if that wound ever heals, it <em>will</em> take years.</p><p class="p2">But for the first time since January, Neal feels important, needed. Not because his brothers are dead, but because he, too, is a child of Tortall. Because he, too, is a son of Queenscove. Because he, too, is one of the next generation, to whom it will fall to fight and heal, defend and lead, protect and serve.</p><p class="p2">In this world where fairytales have become everyday reality, in the days when change happens faster and faster with every passing week, <em>this</em> is when Neal is growing to an adult.</p><p class="p2">Graeme and Cathal are gone, but Neal is <em>not</em>. He is here, and he is alive, in a world where anything can happen, and for the first time since January, Neal is happy. Happy to be alive. And happy, he realises, to be here. Because the King is right. The healing will be the work of years, the work will be hard –</p><p class="p2">And the cost will be <em>worth it</em>.</p><p class="p2">When he glances up from his reverie, he sees Kel looking at him, with a look in her eyes that’s almost contemplative, as though she, too, is musing on the king’s words.</p><p class="p2">He grins at her, unable to contain himself, suddenly.</p><p class="p2">“Isn’t this a great time to be alive? Stormwings and spidrens to fight, beings from legends arrayed at our sides, people in need of protection and us being prepared to do it.” He laughs, a little gleeful, as his tongue and imagination speed up to a run. “Nothing happened in King Roald’s time, and everything’s happening now. We’ll be sung about, our names will be passed on to our descendants!”</p><p class="p2">Kel shrugs as he finishes, looking very indifferent to the prospect he’s just depicted. “It’s going to take a lot of work, that’s for certain.”</p><p class="p2">Neal blinks at her, a little startled, and sets his chin on his hand.</p><p class="p2">He’s already knows that Kel isn’t given to drama, but he truly hadn’t expected <em>that</em> degree of blunt pragmatism. Most boys have a part of them that never really stopped listening to fairytales. He knows he only really has Jessamine as an example to go off, he would have thought most girls have a side like that too.</p><p class="p2">But looking at Kel’s unperturbed expression, Neal wonders if his protégé is an exception that proves the rule.</p><p class="p2">“You aren’t the least bit romantic, are you?” he asks. He can’t quite keep the amusement out of his voice. It is funny, for the girl who is shouldering the legacy of Tortall’s most fiery legend, to be so utterly, stolidly practical, bordering on pragmatic.</p><p class="p2">Kel leans back in her chair. For the third time that day, she gives him a look that conveys: <em>you have just said something absolutely crazy, and I’m starting to worry about you</em>.</p><p class="p2">Neal grins.</p><p class="p2">“Romance?” Kel echoes, frowning at him. “Isn’t that love-stuff?”</p><p class="p2">Oh, had she just been confused?</p><p class="p2">Neal shakes his head, and explains: “It’s more than just love. It’s colour, and – and fire. You don’t want things magnificent, and filled with – with <em>grandeur</em>,” he says, trying to convey the difference. “You know, drama. Importance. Transcendent passion.”</p><p class="p2">At the end of his explanation, Kel’s frown has deepened, and she continues to give him the “<em>I’m worried about your sanity</em>” look, as she shakes her head.</p><p class="p2">“I just want to be a knight,” she says, putting her cutlery down. She looks at him once more, and shakes her head. “Eat your vegetables. They’re good for you.”</p><p class="p2">“Yes, my lady,” Neal says, his meek tone belying the grin he sends her for that.</p><p class="p2">Kel just shakes her head at him, standing, and Neal sighs, forcing himself to start on his stewed cabbage.</p><p class="p2"><em>At least the King left eating vegetables out of his speech,</em> he thinks. The thought brings another smile to his face.</p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Let’s talk about romance. Not so much the fire and drama of life, though we will speak about that later. Not so much passion, transcendent and otherwise. Let’s talk about the love stuff, for a little while.</p><p class="p2">Let’s talk about attraction and fascination, hormones that inevitably go somewhere; feelings which seem to look at the destination that common sense points towards and wheel about to charge in the exact opposite direction.</p><p class="p2">Let’s talk about adolescence and crushes, that first brush with giddy attraction, that swooping, tumbling feeling in the gut, that is powerful, intense – and yet, not love. Not exactly.</p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">That third night of their second Midwinter as pages is blessedly, blissfully peaceful, unlike the past two nights of hell, Neal thinks. So far, at least. Admittedly, this is only the beginning, and the night is still young.</p><p class="p2">Still, they can live in hope.</p><p class="p2">He walks out the door of the kitchen, the dish of rose-water in his hands. He catches Kel’s eye and shoots her an encouraging smile, seeing a hint of nervousness in her eyes.</p><p class="p2">She smiles back, her shoulders straightening, as they walk into the banquet hall together, and take their respective places.</p><p class="p2">Neal bows to the ladies at the table, taking them in quickly. Two of the ladies dressed in fashionable brown and orange, he immediately pegs as Kel’s older sisters. Their eyes are brown, not hazel; they have the demure posture of noble débutantes, rather than Kel’s straight, balanced walk. But there’s something in the shape of their faces, in their determined chins that just screams <em>Kel, </em>and the resemblance makes Neal smile at them.</p><p class="p2">“If my ladies please?” he offers the finger-bowl to each of them, courteous and grave. They offer quick, lilting smiles to him, and Neal walks to the next lady, struggling to keep his smile in place.</p><p class="p2">He doesn’t know the specifics of what had happened the other night. Kel had been deliberately, irritatingly vague, leaving it only at: “One of the ladies said something unkind, and told me that she wished to be served by someone else.”</p><p class="p2">Given that, Neal supposes he should be charitable, and assume that it wasn’t that bad. But Kel’s face and eyes had gone stone-blank when she said it, the way she does when the most vile, poisonous cruelty is being flung at her, so Neal’s not so inclined to be charitable.</p><p class="p2">“My lady,” he offers to the first woman, dressed in deep turquoise. He recognises her, he thinks. She’s been at court for at least three social seasons. He can’t remember her name, though.</p><p class="p2">She looks him up and down with appraising eyes, and snorts. “Aren’t you too old to be doing this, Nealan of Queenscove?”</p><p class="p2"> Sudden certainty that <em>this</em> is the woman who hurt Kel settles in his mind, even as he registers the rude, blunt remark.</p><p class="p2"><span class="Apple-converted-space"> Neal fights to keep his anger from showing on his face. </span>She’s a lady; he can’t call her out to the practice courts.</p><p class="p2">But then, he’s lived at court all his life; and if being the now-heir to Queenscove means far more of this kind of scrutiny than he likes, it also carries a degree of protection.</p><p class="p2">“Oh, no, my lady,” he returns, forcing his face into a thin, sharp smile. “I’ve <em>never</em> considered myself too old to learn something new. Perhaps you'd like to give it a try, sometime.”</p><p class="p2">The lady goes pink with indignation. His work done there, Neal turns to the next lady.</p><p class="p2">Butterflies swarm in his stomach, as he meets lively, dancing brown eyes.</p><p class="p2">She can’t be more than a year older than him, at that. Her hair is curled, pinned, contained by a golden net, but she has left a few curls to drape artfully at her temples. The pale pink of her gown sets off her pale skin, and she is watching him with a grin, her eyes filled with mirth and glee.</p><p class="p2">Neal can’t actually get the required pleasantry out of his voice, he finds.</p><p class="p2">Mutely, he offers the finger-bowl to her.</p><p class="p2">“Nicely done. I’m Uline of Hannalof, by the way,” she says. Her voice is soft, musical, lilting, and his heart flips a little. “Listen, I won’t delay you, but the girl who served us last night. Keladry of Mindelan. Is she alright?”</p><p class="p2">Neal looks at her, feeling his cheeks warm at the same time as his gut. Beautiful and witty and <em>kind</em>. Some things are just not fair.</p><p class="p2">“She’s fine, my lady,” he says. “Kel’s tough. I think Master Oakbridge has found her a good place for tonight.”</p><p class="p2">The lady on Uline’s other side coughs, looking at Neal with raised eyebrows. Hastily, Neal bows his head to her, then to Uline, and continues serving.</p><p class="p2">Throughout the rest of that Midwinter’s night, his eyes keep straying to Uline, noticing her midnight hair, her dark eyes, the way her skin gleams in the torchlight. Thankfully, he avoids making a complete buffoon of himself. He manages a few lines of conversation, as he takes away the platters and dishes each time. She tells him between the cheese and the desserts that she’s recently been reading <em>Ethical Contrasts of the North and South,</em> and he can’t help but smile as she mentions it.</p><p class="p2">“I love that book,” is the only thing he has time to tell her, in response to her quizzically-raised eyebrow, before he needs to take the things back to the kitchen, again.</p><p class="p2">Gorgeous and kind and <em>intelligent</em>, he tells Kel that night, porcelain skin and a voice like music, and he really wishes he’d had time to discuss <em>North and South</em> with her.</p><p class="p2">Kel’s voice is soft, but encouraging. “Sounds like you’re in love,” she says. “And I believe she isn’t betrothed.”</p><p class="p2">Neal’s eyes widen, his heartbeat accelerating at that <em>terrifying</em> thought. He has to cough into his sleeve, several times, before he can get his voice back.</p><p class="p2">“It’s too early for me to think of such things,” he says rapidly, cheeks flushing. Even if he will be seventeen this year– “It’s improper for a page to court anyone.”</p><p class="p2">Kel’s face is composed, giving away nothing.</p><p class="p2">Neal peers at her, worried. Had he been wrong about Uline? He can’t imagine it, but–</p><p class="p2">“You did like her, didn’t you?” he demands. “You know I value your opinion, except on philosophy.”</p><p class="p2">Because Kel knows, she <em>knows</em> he would never, ever like someone who doesn’t like her. Doesn’t she?</p><p class="p2">Kel smiles at him, a little weak at first, and then deeper. “That’s because the philosophy you read me is silly,” she says, sounding almost huffy about it.</p><p class="p2">Neal grins at her, feeling relief sweep over him, as Kel continues. “And yes, Lady Uline is very kind.” For half a heartbeat, Kel’s smile seems to lessen; but then it reappears, so quickly that Neal is not sure what he just saw. “And she’s very pretty,” she adds.</p><p class="p2">Coming from Kel, that <em>is</em> high praise, and Neal feels exultation sweep over him. He’s not sure why it matters to him so much that Kel approves of his crush, but he’s far too relieved that she does to ponder that question.</p><p class="p2">Instead, he decides to let his inner romantic out to play, and leans back in his chair, happily sighing as he thinks back to earlier that night. “I think of her as luminescent,” he says. “When the candle-light falls on her, she makes the light part of herself and returns it.”</p><p class="p2">The manifestly fanciful comment doesn’t elicit the eye-roll that he had expected. Instead, Kel seems to sink a little bit deeper into her chair, before she looks up and gives him another weak smile, and stands.</p><p class="p2">“I’m off,” she says, matter-of-factly. “Don’t be up too late dreaming.”</p><p class="p2">Her step is heavy as she walks to the servers, and Neal looks after her, that worry returned to the back of his mind, and shouting more loudly now.</p>
<hr/><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p2">He wakes up the next morning to knocking on his door. He rolls out of bed, unable to resist the urge to grumble under his breath – when he goes home to Queenscove this summer, he is going to sleep in <em>every day</em> – and opens the door.</p><p class="p2">Faren, used to his ways since he started looking after Neal’s room last year, is holding a medium-sized basket in his arms, smiling cheerily, and the customary wheeled-crate of firewood standing beside him.</p><p class="p2">“Happy Midwinter, Page Nealan,” he greets, a little smile in his eyes.</p><p class="p2">Neal grumbles at ‘Nealan’, but he takes the basket from Faren’s arms. Faren, entirely unperturbed, laughs warmly, as he tows the fire-crate into the room.</p><p class="p2">Neal sits down his bed, and breathes in a meditation pattern, until his thoughts no longer revolve around snarling at everyone and everything, and going back to bed.</p><p class="p2">When he finally is awake and calm, he looks up. Faren, thank the gods, is still in the room, albeit at the doorway already. He must have already added the logs to Neal’s fire-place; Neal will only need a few with his Gift, anyway.</p><p class="p2">“Faren?” he asks.</p><p class="p2">The older man turns at the door, smiling at him. He just looks amused, not hurt or offended. But...</p><p class="p2">Neal is never going to be a morning person. But ever since Kel took on Lalasa, his lack of courtesy towards Faren in the mornings has begun to bother him. The little voice in his head that sounds like Kel has reminded him, regularly, at breakfast: <em>do you think Faren probably really wants to be awake at dawn either? But he still makes enough of an effort to treat you courteously. Doesn’t he deserve the same?</em></p><p class="p2">The thoughts are irritating to have at the breakfast table, all the more so because Neal <em>knows</em> they are true.</p><p class="p2">“Happy Midwinter,” Neal says, managing a crooked smile. “I’m sorry for all the rudeness you’ve had to put up coming from me, in the mornings.”</p><p class="p2">The startled, pleased smile that had begun on Faren’s face at the first greeting softens, as Neal apologises. He tilts his head to the side, looking at Neal.</p><p class="p2">Neal resists the urge to fidget.</p><p class="p2">“I’ve never held it against ye,” the older man says, slowly. “You’ve a good heart, Page Nealan, for all that you’re not a morning person. But I thank ye, all the same.”</p><p class="p2">The words are as dignified as anything that even Duke Gareth the Elder could say. Neal nods, feeling small by comparison, and the older man gives another dignified nod and smile, before he leaves, gently shutting the door behind him.</p><p class="p2">Neal takes a deep, shaky breath. Treating servants like real people is right. It’s what his parents have raised him to believe in, and, more or less, do. And it is obviously, self-evidently <em>right</em>.</p><p class="p2">But he’s grown up at court, all his life, and that sharp-eyed, quick-witted part of himself knows that the target on his back for cruel gossip will grow three sizes, if he chooses to turn theory into practice, and make it a way of life for himself, beyond the lip service he pays to it right now.</p><p class="p2"><em>But Kel would do it,</em> and that thought gives him strength to let his breath out. <em>Kel does it, and would do it, would keep doing it. No matter what </em><span class="s1"><em>anyone</em></span><em> says.</em></p><p class="p2">He doesn’t know that he’ll ever meet anyone else like her. But he can damn well follow the example she sets.</p><p class="p2">Neal opens the basket of presents, and goes through them, one by one.</p><p class="p2">When he comes to the gift from Kel, he looks at it in disbelief for a moment. Then he laughs until he’s struggling to breathe, as he reads the title of the slim, unassuming-looking leather-bound volume.</p><p class="p2"><em>A Meditation on Discipline,</em> by Takashi noh Akaneru, as translated by Ilane of Mindelan.</p><p class="p2">There’s a note, tucked into the front pages. Neal takes it out and unfolds it, smoothing the crease away.</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Neal,</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>If you’re going to insist on reading philosophy, I insist you read warrior stoics while you’re at it.</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Your friend,</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Kel</em>
</p><p class="p2">He laughs again, smoothing at the fold of the note once more.</p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“Thank you for the gift,” he tells her at breakfast, when she spies him in the mess, and drops into the seat next to him. “You know I’ve been suffering from a lack of lectures about discipline this year.”</p><p class="p2">Kel smiles, a twinkling laugh in her eyes; they’ve both gotten into enough trouble this year that Neal thinks he can <em>recite</em> Lord Wyldon’s lecture about discipline. “They’re like vegetables,” she says, innocently. “You can never have too many.”</p><p class="p2">He snorts at that. “Debatable. But, on a happier note, Kel, how did you like your gift?”It had taken him a lot of time to think about what Kel might like, but in the end, he thought he’d threaded the needle <em>very</em> well.</p><p class="p2">She stares at him. “My gift?”</p><p class="p2">He nods, feeling hurt, suddenly not hungry at all. “The book I got you, Kel,” he prompts. “Didn’t you see it?”</p><p class="p2">Her eyes widen. “Oh! Oh, Goddess. Yes, I remember now. Sorry, I thought– never mind.” Her cheeks turn a little pink, as she nods. “I did see it, Neal, yes. I’m sorry I didn’t say so earlier. I was just…I’m distracted.” She hesitates, and then goes on, more quietly: “You remember that bruise balm I got last year?”</p><p class="p2">Neal raises his eyebrows at her and nods. The unlabelled, unmarked jar had had some serious power packed into it; it would have fetched its weight in gold nobles at market.</p><p class="p2">She bites her lip, and then says, her tone hushed and confidential: “That same person – they’ve kept giving me things. Earlier this year, it was exercise balls, to help strengthen my grips. Today–” the blush on her cheeks deepens–“today it was a care kit, for weapons and armour. A <em>full</em> kit, Neal, from <em>Raven Armoury.”</em></p><p class="p2">Neal leans back in his chair, and whistles, his hurt fading as astonishment sweeps over him instead. Well, he can’t blame her for that. In her shoes, he’d be distracted too.</p><p class="p2">He looks at the blush on her cheeks, and nudges her with his elbow, gently. “You know, some girls just ask for candy. So I hear, anyway.” That draws a laugh. “You’re wondering who it is again?”</p><p class="p2">Kel nods. “I just – they’re all gifts that are so very much what I <em>need, </em>and they’re all so high-quality. My family…well, Mindelan’s a barony, and I’m the youngest of nine, and I just–” she breaks off abruptly, and now, her cheeks have gone from pink to red.</p><p class="p2">Neal looks at her. There’s some combination of awe and frustration and embarrassment on her face.</p><p class="p2">“You just…?” he prompts.</p><p class="p2">Kel shrugs, looking flushed, before she looks intently at her plate. “No-one can ever have spent this much money on me ever before in my <em>life</em>. I wish I could thank them,” she says, her voice very low and quiet.</p><p class="p2">Neal swallows, as the air feels abruptly heavy around them. Kel almost never shows this much emotion.</p><p class="p2">He clears his throat, feeling awkward, and suggests, “Perhaps you’ll get the chance, someday.”</p><p class="p2">Kel looks up again at him, her eyes shining at the prospect.</p><p class="p2">He smiles at her, feeling a surge of uncontrollable affection.</p><p class="p2">Her cheeks flush pinker, and her smile widens, even as she quickly looks away and abruptly takes a drink of her water.</p><p class="p2">Perhaps she’s feeling as awkward revealing the emotion as he is at responding to it.</p><p class="p2">She recovers, though, setting her glass down, before she turns to him with an almost serious look on her face. Only the look in her eyes tells him that she’s actually very happy. Thrilled, even.</p><p class="p2">“But – but while we’re talking about your gift,” she says to him, her tone hushed, “Neal. How on earth did you find a pristine copy of <em>Fourteen Moonlit Dances with the Naginata?</em>”</p><p class="p2">The world seems a much brighter place than it did two minutes ago, suddenly. “It took a while to find,” Neal answers, beginning to attack his plate. “But I asked Hakuin if there were any manuals he knew of, and he named <em>Fourteen Dances</em>.</p><p class="p2">“And the good thing about Queenscove is, it’s only a day's south of Port Caynn. I decided that there had to be a few booksellers in the city who’d sell Yamani titles. They’re already in demand, what with the alliance. I recruited one of my cousins, and my sister, and, well, after two days of searching, I found one. And he had a good copy.”</p><p class="p2">Kel’s eyes, bright with delight, have widened steadily throughout his speech. By the end of it, they’re almost the size of dinner plates. Her cheeks have flushed to an even deeper red, now, and the food that she has speared onto her fork is on the verge of falling off.</p><p class="p2">“Are you saying that you looked for <em>two days</em> for my gift?” she asks.</p><p class="p2">Heat rushes to Neal’s cheeks suddenly, and he looks at his plate for a moment.</p><p class="p2">“Did I say that?” he says, innocently. “Oh, well. You know me. I’m stubborn. Simply incapable of letting an idea go.”</p><p class="p2">Kel snorts, and he looks back up, to see her grinning at him. “That you are.” Her smile softens, almost shyly. “Neal…<em>thank you.</em>” </p><p class="p2">He swallows.</p><p class="p2">“You’re welcome, Mindelan,” he says, attempting to sound unaffected.</p><p class="p2">Kel is still smiling at him, her eyes alight, her smile oddly shy.</p><p class="p2">The odd moment breaks, with a a clatter of footsteps beside him, and they both glance up to see Merric, Seaver, Roald, Faleron, and the rest of their group all dropping into the chairs around them.</p><p class="p2">“How are you two here so early?” Merric demands, shaking out his hair. “Didn’t you get roped into the snowball fight outside?”</p><p class="p2">“We didn’t,” Neal drawls, relieved for the chance for some sarcasm and normalcy to return to the morning. “<em>Some</em> of us like to make it to the eighth bell of the morning <em>without</em> getting soaked with frozen water.”</p><p class="p2">“You have no Midwinter spirit, Neal,” Faleron says, mock-solemnly shaking his head. </p><p class="p2">The attack on his honour makes Neal forgets all about the odd moment, in favour of the teasing and friendship that fills the breakfast table.</p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">“<em>You</em>,” he tells Kel sternly, after <em>that night</em>, “are a menace.”</p><p class="p2">Kel looks at him, blinking long lashes, an innocent expression on her face. Neal considers himself a connoisseur of such expressions, and he has to admit, hers is good. Eight points, at least.</p><p class="p2">“Am I?” she asks, blandly, tapping her pencil on her mathematics problem.</p><p class="p2">“<em>Yes,”</em> he hisses. “You, and the whole band of uncultured, sadistic barbarians that we call friends.”</p><p class="p2">“How strange,” she says, her voice still bland. A smirk hovers at the corner of her mouth, and her eyes shine with laughter for a heartbeat, before she lowers her head to the problem again. They’re the only clues to her amusement, as she continues: “The boys and I thought we were showing solidarity. For your romantic spirit, you know.”</p><p class="p2">Neal glares, and eats his breakfast in silent, haughty indignation, pretending to ignore her.</p><p class="p2">(They are laughing again together by lunch.)</p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Neal sighs about Uline in the boys’ hearing less after that. He likes his sleep, thank you. He still talks about it to Kel, sometimes, though, because Kel, for all her Yamani stillness, is incredibly tolerant, and astonishingly patient.</p><p class="p2">She lets him sigh and describe Uline’s beauty in the most ridiculous and exaggerated of terms; she allows him to lounge on his bed in fits of melodrama, only poking at him in the back of the head after five uninterrupted minutes of histrionics. And, rather than roll her eyes at his ridiculous poetry, Kel actually looks at the poems, a thoughtful crease between her eyebrows. Twice, she even makes a suggestion to a line here or there.</p><p class="p2">Kel, in a nutshell, is <em>safe, </em>Neal thinks. Safe with his melodrama, safe company with whom he can indulge his inner romantic, a safe sounding board for these child’s dreams that will never go anywhere.</p><p class="p2">Although, Neal realises, the day when she suggests he actually sends one of the poems, it’s possible that Kel hasn’t realised that he <em>isn’t</em> actually madly in love with Uline.</p><p class="p2">“You really should,” she insists.</p><p class="p2">Neal shakes his head, looking at her. “I’ll enjoy my crush in private, thanks all the same. I’d prefer that to finding out that she and all her friends giggle over my poor verses.”</p><p class="p2">Kel frowns at him. “Isn’t love supposed to make you brave?” she asks, tossing one of her exercise balls up into the air and catching it absently. “Neal, what’s the point of all these words that will never go anywhere?”</p><p class="p2">Her question is artless and there’s genuine curiosity and bafflement in it, and it’s that which makes his chest suddenly feel very tight.</p><p class="p2">It’s a <em>crush</em>, he wants to say. It isn’t <em>love</em>, love would be dangerous. It’s a crush, a ridiculous, melodramatic, page-boy crush, and he just wants to enjoy it, enjoy the warm fuzzy feeling and the dramatic sighing.</p><p class="p2">It’s a <em>crush</em>, and the entire point of a ridiculous crush is that the words never go anywhere. The words never go anywhere, and nobody gets hurt, nobody gets heartbroken, nobody gets involved–</p><p class="p2">(And nobody leaves, because nobody arrived in the first place.)</p><p class="p2">Neal swallows hard, and tries to put his normal, teasing face back on. When in doubt, deflect.</p><p class="p2">“And here I thought you didn’t <em>care</em> about love stuff,” he teases.</p><p class="p2">Kel stiffens, looking at him sharply, abruptly. Neal’s stomach sinks. He has no idea how, or why, but somehow by saying that, he has just crossed a very sensitive line.</p><p class="p2">“I – I don’t,” Kel says, suddenly defensive. “I don’t.”</p><p class="p2">Neal blinks. He’s never, ever seen her react like this, not the fifteen months – and it feels like far longer than that, most days – that he’s known her.</p><p class="p2">“You don’t?” he echoes, slowly, feeling cautious.</p><p class="p2">She whirls to face the wall of his room, her shoulders tight and uncomfortable.</p><p class="p2">Moving on impulse, Neal moves to the door-frame of his room, takes his pencil out of his pocket, and sketches out the notice-me-not charm he'd learned from his mother on it, activating it with a few drops of his Gift. Then he goes to Kel, setting a hand on her shoulder. The least he can do is make sure prying eyes are turned away. </p><p class="p2">“Kel,” he says softly. “Was it something I just said?”</p><p class="p2">Her shoulder tenses even more under his hand, and he sighs. She’s practically <em>radiating</em> “I don’t want to talk about it.”</p><p class="p2"><em>Mithros and the Goddess. Mindelan, do you think you’ll die if you admit a weakness?</em> </p><p class="p2">He takes a deep breath and calls his calm back to him, glancing once more at the tight, uncomfortable lines of tension in her shoulders and neck.</p><p class="p2">“Kel, I don’t know how I’ve just hurt you. But it seems like I have. I’m sorry,” he says.</p><p class="p2">Kel’s shoulder moves under his fingers as she takes a deep breath, and lets it out. And another, and another.</p><p class="p2">Then finally, she sighs, as her fingers come up to her temples, and she faces him again.</p><p class="p2">Her face has softened once more.</p><p class="p2">“It’s not your fault, Neal,” she tells him, with the ghost of a smile on her face. “You just…you reminded me of something that, that a few people said to me. A long time ago.”</p><p class="p2">Neal rubs her shoulder, the only comfort he can offer her, sudden nasty suspicion prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. He has no idea what these mysterious <em>few people</em> said to her, or how his words could have brought it up, but whatever it was, it hurt her. Badly.</p><p class="p2">“Well, I think I’ve had enough of my own terrible poetry for the night,” he says, after a moment. “What do you say to soundly beating me at staff-work?”</p><p class="p2">Kel laughs, and it’s shaky, but real. Neal smiles back at her, as they agree silently to sweep the moment under the rug.</p><p class="p2">He tries not to mention Uline to her after that, though.</p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">That summer, Kel saves his life, and the life of every other page in their hunting party.</p><p class="p2">They’re being surrounded by bandits. The escape routes are cut off, Kel’s dog and sparrows are attacking the enemy, and Neal’s feet feel glued to the ground. All he can think is, <em>we’re going to die.</em></p><p class="p2">And he thinks that, until the shout of his name breaks through his paralysis.</p><p class="p2">“Neal! Prosper! Blind ‘em, hide us, confuse ‘em, <em>now!”</em></p><p class="p2">Kel’s voice is filled with authority like a hammer, and it shatters the paralysis of his terror. Neal draws on his Gift and starts spreading a veiling fog around them, a haze that will bend for them, but that will block the bandits. After another few moments, Prosper’s white-blue magic joins his.</p><p class="p2">Somehow, Kel knows exactly what to do. She gets their backs against a cliff; she pulls a line of retreat, a goat track up the cliff-face to a cave, out of a hat. She sets out the order of who will go up the goat track, assigning herself to bring up the rear, and orders, “Now, <em>go!”</em></p><p class="p2">Neal follows on Faleron’s heels, racing to obey his orders. His hands are clammy with worry, and he grits his teeth, fighting the urge to look back, to make sure the others are alright, until he gets to the cave, wipes his sweaty hands on his tunic, and brings up his bow.</p><p class="p2"><em>Covering fire</em>, he thinks, grimly, even as he nocks an arrow. <em>I can do that.</em></p><p class="p2">And he can. He can, because he’s never wanted to hurt other human beings, but Owen is only halfway up the trail, and Kel is still at the base, with three raiders riding straight towards her.</p><p class="p2">Nock, draw, release. Two arrows hit the bandit on the right, someone else’s in his side, and Neal’s in his chest. Neal swallows back his revulsion, and shoots again; the bandit is too far away for Neal to be sure he’s hit something vital. This arrow takes the bandit in his throat. The bandit on the left has fallen, too; a number of arrows in both his and his mount’s body.</p><p class="p2">Neal sees Kel account for the third bandit, holding her spear like a glaive, and Owen still firing as he’s halfway up the cliff, before Merric, Seaver and Prosper scramble into the cave. A pained groan emanates from Merric’s mouth.</p><p class="p2">Because Merric, Neal realises, is bleeding from an arrow wound to the shoulder.</p><p class="p2">Neal scrambles over to the other boy, suddenly <em>very</em> grateful that he’s not the only Gifted boy in the party.</p><p class="p2">“Merric, lie down!”</p><p class="p2">“I’m fine–” Merric protests, despite the fact that he’s swaying on his feet.</p><p class="p2">Neal is fresh out of the patience, and there’s no time for remedial lessons in anatomy right now. Using his greater reach and strength, he pulls Merric down by his uninjured side, catching his head and shoulders and lowering him the rest of the way to the ground.</p><p class="p2">Merric yelps inarticulate protest at the movement, and Neal glares.</p><p class="p2">“Is your pride worth not breathing anymore? No? <em>Good!"</em></p><p class="p2">Merric gives a tiny, meek nod, and Neal relaxes fractionally, now that Merric’s on the ground. He’ll explain the facts later, Neal thinks, as he sets about examining him.</p><p class="p2">No other major wounds, apart from the obvious. Returning to the left shoulder, unceremoniously, he cuts away part of Merric’s tunic and shirt to see it better, despite his objections.</p><p class="p2">“Merric, I swear if you don’t stop arguing with Neal, I’m going to <em>gag</em> you," Faleron says. There's a distinct tightness in the younger page’s voice. Neal always knew Faleron was the clever cousin.</p><p class="p2">Focus. The arrow, Queenscove.</p><p class="p2">Neal studies the wound, probing the area around it with cautious fingers, and feels a wave of relief sweep over him.</p><p class="p2">The blood flow is slowing, a bit, now that Merric is still, and the arrow-head is lodged in the skin. It is most likely a razor-headed broad-head, meant to kill, and beyond his skill to heal.</p><p class="p2">But the Great Mother of all mercy is <em>smiling</em> on them today, and gods <em>bless</em> the Stump’s ridiculous training, Neal thinks, relief crashing over him. Because if Merric, all of twelve, had developed even an inch less muscle around his shoulders and chest, it would have likely slidden in through his ribs, while he was climbing up the trail, and created a hole in his lung.</p><p class="p2">But it hasn’t, because Merric actually <em>has</em> a pectoral muscle to speak of. Instead, the arrow has lodged an inch-deep into the <em>muscle</em>, just underneath Merric’s collarbone.</p><p class="p2">Which means that it has hit along at <em>least</em> one nerve path, it’s probably done no favours for the nearby tendons, and Merric’s going to need some serious healing before he can even <em>think</em> of using a bow again, but– </p><p class="p2">“You’re going to live,” Neal tells Merric, not caring for once if his tone shows his relief. “Now let me stop the bleeding and the ouch, until someone can actually fix it.”</p><p class="p2">“You’re not going to pull it out?” Merric asks tightly, his face white as a sheet.</p><p class="p2">…One of these days, the Stump really needs to add <em>basic wound care</em> to their training.</p><p class="p2">“<em>No</em>, Hollyrose,” Neal says, exasperated, setting his hand on the boy’s chest, a few inches below the arrow wound. “I’d like you to actually <em>live,</em> you see.”</p><p class="p2">Dark green fire spreads over Neal’s hands and over Merric’s shoulder, and, inch by inch, the younger boy’s breathing becomes less strained.</p><p class="p2">It’s at this moment that there’s a rustle of movement at the mouth of the cave, and the chattering of sparrows, before he feels the familiar sensation of talons on his shoulder. His shoulders nearly slump from relief, although he stays where he is.</p><p class="p2">Kel is here.</p><p class="p2">She orders him to stay with Merric, when he notices she’s limping; tells Prosper to eat something, to ease up on the magical cover; quizzes Faleron about the horn call, and sends Crown for help.</p><p class="p2">Neal focusses on pouring his Gift into Merric, slowly. The last thing they need is for him to fall unconscious from too much, too fast; and Neal hasn’t had to do anything this complicated since the Immortals’ War. </p><p class="p2">He’s embarrassed to realise he’s forgotten a lot of the experience.</p><p class="p2">“Can you do more than stop the ouch?” Kel asks him, when she comes over to them.</p><p class="p2">He shakes his head, shame sore in the back of his throat. No, he can’t. Son of the most powerful healer in the realm, and he can’t do more than stop the ouch.</p><p class="p2">“I don’t have the training.”</p><p class="p2">“But you can heal–”</p><p class="p2">“Within <em>limits</em>,” he cuts her off, tiredly. He takes a deep breath, making sure that the outflow of his Gift is still steady, and then continues. “I was supposed to start learning about arrow, knife and sword wounds this year, if I’d stayed.”</p><p class="p2">They don’t let healers into the field for treating combat wounds any younger than sixteen, in peace-time.</p><p class="p2">Kel’s hair rustles as she shakes her head. “You should get proper training!”</p><p class="p2">Of course, he thinks bitterly, taking his hand off Merric just for an instant. An untrained healer is no good. Neal swallows down the hurt, and looks at Kel, forcing himself to calm.</p><p class="p2">“When?” he asks her. “Most people go for either knight or healer, not both.”</p><p class="p2">Kel opens her mouth, and then closes it, as she looks closer at him. Her face softens.</p><p class="p2">“Sorry, Neal,” she says ruefully.</p><p class="p2">The knot of hurt in his chest eases. He reads the stress in her eyes, along with the apology there, and manages a crooked smile. Even old souls say unhelpful things when they’re frightened.</p><p class="p2">“It’s alright,” he answers, putting his hand back on Merric’s chest. “Gods know I keep thinking I was crack-brained to leave the university.”</p><p class="p2">Because she has a point. He could do <em>so much more</em> with proper training.</p><p class="p2">“But if you hadn’t, I would be a lot worse off right now,” Merric says. Neal glances at him, and notices that the strain has faded from his face. His speech wasn’t so laboured as it was a minute ago, either. “I like you where you are, thanks.”</p><p class="p2">Strong, small hands grip Neal’s shoulder, in a final silent apology, and then Kel goes back to the entrance.</p><p class="p2"><em>Little general</em>, he thinks, shaking his head.</p><p class="p2">He takes his hand off Merric’s chest, after another minute or so. “I refuse to be liable for your sanity, but you’ll definitely live,” he tells the other boy.</p><p class="p2">He blinks, as weariness suddenly swamps him. Oh. That...that had used up <em>much</em> more of his Gift than he’d realised.</p><p class="p2">Merric grins at him, and Neal realises he looks almost normal, now. Aside from the minor detail of the arrow sticking out of his shoulder, anyway.</p><p class="p2">“We’re all mad here,” Merric says.</p><p class="p2">They are. They really, really are.</p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">That night, after they’ve finally settled in at the Army outpost, Neal walks down the corridors, and taps on the door of the room that Kel is sharing with the Shang Wildcat.</p><p class="p2">Eda Bell opens the door, in tunic and breeches. Surprise on her face fades into an amused smile, as she sees him, and the expression in her eyes is almost knowing.</p><p class="p2">“Queenscove,” she says. Her voice, at least, is not unkind.</p><p class="p2">Neal swallows. He’d hoped she would be with the Stump and the district commander. Well, then.</p><p class="p2">“I wondered if I could have a word with Kel,” he says. Happily, his voice stays even while he says it. </p><p class="p2">Eda Bell turns and walks back further into the room. A few moments later, Kel appears in the doorway.</p><p class="p2">They’ve all had a chance to wash, eat and bathe. There isn’t dust or blood on Kel anymore, and her hair is still damp. But there’s a brittleness in her eyes that worries him when he sees it, especially because he knows he’s seen it <em>somewhere</em> before.</p><p class="p2">After a moment, he places it. Jessamine had looked like that, that after that first attack in Corus.</p><p class="p2">The realisation brings Neal back to why he’s here, why his feet have taken him to her door.</p><p class="p2">Kel is here. She’s alive. She’s well. </p><p class="p2">Neal sighs, finding a lump in his throat instead of words, and wraps his arms around her.</p><p class="p2">Kel stiffens. “Neal–” she begins, her voice sharp with worry.</p><p class="p2">“I checked the corridors,” he murmurs back, his voice almost soundless. “Almost everyone’s already gone to bed, and the Stump is with the district commander. Terrifying him out of his wits, I imagine.” </p><p class="p2">“Eda Bell–” Kel says, her voice still low.</p><p class="p2">The Shang Wildcat must have <em>very</em> sharp hearing, Neal thinks. Because not one second after Kel says her name, there is an ostentatiously loud yawn from further within the room.</p><p class="p2">“Oh, dear me,” the old Wildcat says. “All this excitement is so tiring for old bones. I guess I’ll just have to take a nap.”</p><p class="p2">Neal bites his lip to keep back a laugh; Kel lets out a weary huff of amusement.</p><p class="p2">After another moment, she finally relaxes into the hug. And he holds her. Allows himself, just for the moment, to hug her; to damn propriety and what cruel gossipmongers would say, to throw care for appearances to the winds, and <em>just hold her</em>.</p><p class="p2">Just for a minute, he lets his senses soak in the truth: she’s alive, she’s whole, she’s okay.</p><p class="p2">He hasn’t lost his best friend.</p><p class="p2">He sighs in relief, and the breath of it stirs her hair. He feels her nestle, ever so slightly closer, against him.</p><p class="p2">“Are you alright?” she mumbles into his chest.</p><p class="p2">Neal smiles. He really should have seen that question coming.</p><p class="p2">“I was going to ask you the same question. You were incredible today, you know,” he tells her.</p><p class="p2">She lets out a laugh. It’s muffled against his ribs, but it sounds almost disbelieving. She wriggles back far enough to look up at him, and say, “You must be joking. I was terrified.”</p><p class="p2">“We all were,” he assures her. “But you didn’t freeze, Kel. You took command, the way Faleron or I really ought to have.”</p><p class="p2">Kel is silent for a moment. Then, after another, she asks, hesitantly: “Are you angry with me?”</p><p class="p2">…Sometimes, he does not understand this girl at all.</p><p class="p2">He loosens the hug, and Kel takes the hint. She withdraws her arms from around his neck, and then sticks them into her pockets.</p><p class="p2">“Kel,” Neal asks, trying to catch her gaze with his own, “why, in the name of all the gods, would I be angry with you right now?”</p><p class="p2">Her cheeks are pink, and she gives a shrug. “You know. For taking command like that. You’re senior to me. So’s Faleron, for that matter.”</p><p class="p2">Neal blinks. Is he hearing this right?</p><p class="p2">“Are you saying,” he asks her, confusion beginning to turn to amusement, “that you’re worried you’ve injured my pride?”</p><p class="p2">Kel gives a minuscule nod.</p><p class="p2">It’s only the knowledge of how very much he is<em> not allowed to be here</em> that keeps Neal from throwing his head back and guffawing. Instead, he jams his fist against his mouth, and his body shakes with the force of suppressed laughter.</p><p class="p2">Kel glares. “<em>Neal!”</em></p><p class="p2">He waves his free hand at her, half-apology, but he can’t stop the laughter racking his body. Because it’s just all much, <em>much</em> too absurd. Six pages survived accidentally ambushing a camp of bandits, because the oldest eleven-year old he’s ever met took command; and the eleven-year old in question, this ridiculous girl, is worrying, over all things? <em>The fragility of Neal’s ego</em>.</p><p class="p2">Kel kicks him in the shin, and that cuts his laughter off. “Ow! Mithros, Kel!”</p><p class="p2">“You were being silly,” Kel says, tightly, and she steps to the side. “If that’s all, I’m going to bed.”</p><p class="p2">“Wait, <em>Kel</em>-”</p><p class="p2">He decides one more near-suicidal risk is called for today. Moving fast but keeping his grip gentle, Neal catches her hand in his.</p><p class="p2">Thankfully, she hasn’t lost her patience entirely, and the gentleness does what he’d hoped it would; expresses a plea, not a restraint. Instead of throwing him over her hip, or otherwise turning him into a makeshift sparring dummy, Kel sighs and turns back, as he lets go.</p><p class="p2">Her hands immediately go onto her hips, and she looks at him in wordless, unamused inquiry.</p><p class="p2">“I <em>wasn’t</em> laughing at you,” he tells her, hoping that the truth shines through in his face. “Really, I wasn’t. I was just…laughing at the day. It was mad, Kel.”</p><p class="p2">Kel’s eyes and face soften, and slowly, she nods, her arms moving back to her sides. “I understand,” she says.</p><p class="p2">“And I’m not angry you took command. Kel.” He glances up and down the corridor.</p><p class="p2">Still no-one. Good.</p><p class="p2">He takes a deep breath, takes a step closer, and lowers his voice. “Kel, the second those raiders boxed us in, I thought we were dead.”</p><p class="p2">Shock blooms in her eyes as he says it, and Neal swallows down the shame he feels at admitting it. But this is the point, this is what she needs to understand, so he presses on.</p><p class="p2">“Kel, I thought we were dead. Because I thought that, I froze. So did Faleron.You? You thought we had to <em>act</em>. That was why you took command, eleven years old or no. And because you did, we’re all still <em>alive</em>.”</p><p class="p2">Kel’s cheeks redden again, and as endearing as Neal often finds her modesty, this time, he doesn’t intend to indulge it.</p><p class="p2">He finishes his point, instead. “That’s why I’m not angry. That’s why I would <em>never</em> be angry about something like this, even if I <em>am</em> embarrassed that I froze. You <em>saved my life</em>, Kel. I’ll never forget it.”</p><p class="p2">Kel stands there, unmoving, her eyes wide and shocked, her cheeks turning redder and redder.</p><p class="p2">Neal suddenly becomes aware of just how close they’re standing, and what this would look like to any hypothetical observer, age difference or no. Hastily, he takes a step back, until there’s a decorous space between them.</p><p class="p2">Kel’s mouth is still opening and closing, without any sound coming out.</p><p class="p2">Neal can’t help but smile. He’s not sure he’s ever seen her so disconcerted. Then again, Kel’s very prone to underestimating the impact she has on people.</p><p class="p2">Moved by an impulse he doesn’t entirely understand, Neal takes another step back, and bows to her, deeply. For once, the gesture doesn’t carry a hint of mockery.</p><p class="p2">“Good night, Kel.”</p><p class="p2">He turns and walks down the corridor. He only makes it twelve steps, before her voice calls out.</p><p class="p2">“I’m not eleven years old anymore.”</p><p class="p2">Confused, he turns and quirks an eyebrow at her.</p><p class="p2">She gives him a half-smile, one that is a little shy, even as she crosses her arms and looks at the other wall instead.</p><p class="p2">“Today was my birthday,” she says, quietly.</p><p class="p2">“Is that right?” he asks, astonishment making him incapable of any other reply.</p><p class="p2">Kel nods.</p><p class="p2">Neal shakes his head, unable to stop himself from grinning. Then he bows again, to the same depth that he did just before.</p><p class="p2">“I’m sorry,” he says, when he straightens up again, and this time, he lets a teasing note slip into his voice. “I stand corrected. We’re alive because the oldest – I might also add ‘maddest’ – <em>twelve-</em>year old I’ve ever met took command.”</p><p class="p2">One hand covers her mouth, Kel’s voice is shaking with suppressed laughter, even as her eyes look up towards the ceiling. After a long minute, she manages to say, a chuckle still threading through her voice: “Good night, Neal.”</p><p class="p2">“Good night, Kel,” he says, turning to walk down the corridor.</p>
<hr/><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p2">Let’s talk about a boy who falls in love with beauty after beauty; some unkempt, some courtly, some queenly. All of them unattainable. Let’s talk about a boy who seems, with unerring precision, to aim his adolescent loves towards women whom he will never hold, never kiss.</p><p class="p2">These are women who he will never have to see in tears, or hurting, or bruised or battered. Women who he can revere, to the point of fooling himself that they are untouchable, divine–</p><p class="p2">Let’s talk about a boy who seems careful to fall in love with the images of goddesses; who are not mere mortals, and don’t die like them, either.</p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">That Midwinter, Neal waits on the high table. The King and Queen, his parents, the elder Duke of Naxen and the Prime Minister, the Lady Cythera, and at least four ambassadors are all seated together, as well as his parents.</p><p class="p2">All things considered, it goes about as well as it possibly could. Neal gets through the ordeal by etiquette without any shaming mishaps or “accidents”. The biggest curveball of the night is that when he stands to serve the Queen, he’s the closest he’s ever stood to her in his <em>life</em>. She’s always been beautiful, called “the Peerless” for a reason. But for the first time ever, Neal is close enough to see the hints of freckles on her high cheekbones, and her eyes filled with regal thoughtfulness.</p><p class="p2">By time he’s served the fish course, he has butterflies in his stomach, even before Queen Thayet glances in his direction and murmurs quick thanks.</p><p class="p2">When Neal comes to the King after the Queen, His Majesty meets Neal’s eyes, and his lips quirk in a tolerant smile.</p><p class="p2">Neal flushes, feeling both mortified that his attraction is so obvious, and relieved that the King isn’t even a little bit offended or alarmed.</p><p class="p2">Then again, why would he be? Neal thinks, when he returns to the kitchen, and his brain begins to work again. Her Majesty is known as ‘the Peerless’ for a reason.Doubtless, Neal’s not the first eighteen-year old to have this problem, and he won’t be the last.</p><p class="p2">Comforted by the realisation that in this, at least, he is normal, Neal allows his inner romantic out to play again, and allows himself to moon over the Queen.</p><p class="p2">(Given the way his friends attack him with baguettes later that night as he does, Neal thinks it’s possible he <em>may</em> have overdone it. Just a little.)</p><p class="p2">Like his crush with Uline, Neal’s dreamy-eyed gazes and ramblings about Queen Thayet stay within earshot of his friends. He writes no love letters this time; he has no desire to even <em>daydream</em> the thought of attracting Her Majesty’s attention. Neal likes his head attached to his body, thank you very much.</p><p class="p2">But a handful of times, he sets pen to paper, to try and capture what drew his attention so much; what was in the Queen’s face that had had him utterly mesmerised, and only kept from making a complete fool of himself by the grace of the gods. Each time, he binds the papers together, puts them back in his desk drawer, and seals it shut with his magic.</p><p class="p2">The fifth and last time he does this, an abrupt knock at his door sends his quill slashing across the page. He rolls his eyes, and he twists in his desk-chair.</p><p class="p2">Kel is standing in the doorway, a staff in her hand. She’s flanked by Owen’s cousins, who are also holding practice staves. Her hip is cocked, and there’s a disgruntled expression on her face.</p><p class="p2">Neal quirks an eyebrow at her. “Is this penance for something I said today?”</p><p class="p2">Kel’s answering smile is wry, as she jerks her thumb at the first-years. “These two have been coming to me for help with their staff-work for a while. Tonight, they decided to invite some of their year-mates along. The five of them can’t all fit in my room, so we’re going to go down to the indoor practice courts. Want to come?”</p><p class="p2">The question is couched as an invitation. Neal isn’t fooled for one minute.</p><p class="p2">He bundles his papers together with a dramatic sigh, and sets them in his desk, quickly reactivating the locking spell. Then he gets to his feet and stretches luxuriously, grinning at the picture of exasperation on Kel’s face.</p><p class="p2">“I <em>suppose</em> I could assist you in one of your noble, mad, benevolent campaigns,” he drawls. He walks over to them, only pausing to shrug on his arming jacket. “What else are friends for?”</p><p class="p2">Kel’s smile returns at his answer; and together, they herd the first-years down to the practice courts.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>1. This chapter got really, ridiculously long, so I had to split it and the upcoming chapter into two. They really make best sense as two parts of a whole, though; a lot of things from this one thread directly into the next.</p><p>2. There's a lot in this one chapter, and if there's one thing I love doing, it's talking about my own work. So consider this note a kind of director's commentary.</p><p>3. I really love how different Neal and Kel are when it comes to romance, the idea of drama and epic narratives and transcendent passion. We know from canon that Kel doesn't think much of the concept. My reasoning for this is because Kel is so idealistic, so full of the heart of these stories – honour and chivalry and so on – that, in a way, she doesn't really need it. She wants to be a hero, but she doesn't necessarily want to star in a legend. </p><p>4. Neal, though, is a lot more cynical about people, real life, the realm and the way things work, and, in a lot of ways, hasn't even begun to really deal with his grief for his brothers. Jonathan's speech – which is when his love affair with the concept of romance really kicks off, imo – is the first thing that challenges him to snap out of it, and think of his own life as something worth living.</p><p>5. Hence his outright panic at the thought of him being seriously in love, or betrothed to someone. He's nowhere near ready for things to get that real, and he knows it. </p><p>6. The scene with Faren just happened while I was writing. I spent the next ten minutes internally squealing at how much Kel inspires Neal.</p><p>7. That note that Kel gives him with her gift? Yeah, that's her fifth attempt at it. Attempt two and four, she tried to add "Love, Kel" and freaked out both times. (Lalasa was <em> very </em> amused.)</p><p>8. I imagine that Neal gets most of his friends books. But he definitely wouldn't put as much effort into a gift for Faleron, Merric or Roald, and so on. (Has this thought occurred to him? No.)</p><p>9. "You are a <em> menace" </em> – aka, Neal's reaction to that night when Kel and their friends gather outside his window during sleeping hours and wake him up by belting out the soppiest love ballad they know.</p><p>10. Neal's insistence that Merric lie down is based off my conversations with my parents. Apparently, with bleeding wounds, one of the big risks is that not enough blood will get to the brain-stem, which is the part of the brain that controls homeostasis – aka, breathing. Hence's Neal's reaction of Anger, Born of Worry. I've done my best with the anatomy, but I don't have any medical training, so there may be some errors in that scene. </p><p>11. Last week it finally clicked for me, that Neal in canon, till he meets Yuki, has a habit of falling for unattainable women; that's the one thing that Thayet, Uline and Daine all have in common. And then I remembered that both his brothers died in less than a month. And my brain went: are these dots...<em> connected? </em></p><p>12. It may take a while before the story picks up into their squire years and after; I'm going up the coast with my family this week, for a week or so's holiday. I'm very much looking forward to it! Anyway, I hope you enjoyed.</p><p>13. <em>Fourteen Moonlit Dances with the Naginata </em> is stolen from Bracketyjack's New Hope series (in particular, <em>Lady Knight Volant</em>. Though I'm betting that most of you knew that.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. on romance (Page, part two)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The second half of <em>Page,</em> from Neal’s perspective. Featuring swordsmanship, a jealous Cleon, Neal being a loyal but oblivious friend, and some more thoughts about romance.</p><p>Or: Neal writes poetry for ladies like Uline, Daine or Queen Thayet, and never delivers any of them. He gives his appreciative smiles, compliments, loyalty and courage to Kel, though; and that should tell you something about what distinguishes a crush from love.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Part two of Page, from Neal's perspective; this and the previous chapter are best treated as one 'part', just split into two chapters.</p><p>Liberties with swordsmanship, the characters and physiology abound.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Let’s talk about love, romance, and the ill-defined lands in between. Often, these kingdoms overlap, and sometimes, they don’t even share a border.</p><p class="p1">Let’s consider, for a moment: while romance <em>is</em> concerned with a connection between two real lovers, growing and vibrant and full of life, the word is equally concerned with the story you tell yourself.</p><p class="p1">Let’s consider that sometimes – especially if your heart was broken once; if you went from lazing in your brothers’ shadows to standing out like a sore thumb; if you sometimes feel far too small for the legacy that’s been left to you –</p><p class="p1">Let’s consider that that story may not be a clear reflection of reality.</p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Third-year training keeps them all ridiculously busy. On top of that, the Stump has started tactical and strategic lessons. And on top of <em>that</em>, the first-years and second-years are still coming to Kel for help with their staffs, and she continues to drag him into assist, at least one evening a week.</p><p class="p1">The end result is that they have precious little spare time; what time he does have, he spends with their tight-knit group of friends, nearly all of whom were present at the Battle of the Cliff.</p><p class="p1">Neal blames the aforementioned lack of free time for how long it takes him to see what’s right under his nose.</p><p class="p1">The penny finally drops one day in early spring, one Sunday in late January, after Kel announces that she is in the mood for extra sword practice.</p><p class="p1">Neal shrugs, and climbs to his feet; he is more fond of the academics of knight training, but sword-work is the exception that proves the rule, for him. He’s none too surprised when Faleron also gets to his feet. He’s a touch weaker with the sword than he is with his other weapons, but, above all, Faleron is a hard worker.</p><p class="p1">Cleon, who has been studying in the library with Neal, also gets to his feet, with surprising speed.</p><p class="p1">Neal raises his eyebrows at him. “Feeling a need for extra practice?”</p><p class="p1">Cleon grins, shaking his head. “I’ll referee. Besides, someone needs to keep you three out of trouble.”</p><p class="p1">Neal laughs at that, and they head down to the practice courts together.</p><p class="p1">At first, Faleron and Kel spar with each other for two rounds. Neal and Cleon watch, calling out suggestions, Cleon to Kel and Neal to Faleron. After less than a minute, both Kel and Faleron break off, as if in silent, mutual consent. They turn to Neal and Cleon, and Kel orders them to both to <em>shut</em>. <em>Up</em>.</p><p class="p1"><em>Oops</em>, Neal thinks, a little guiltily. He really hadn’t meant to distract them.</p><p class="p1">As a silent apology, he walks onto the practice court and hands Kel a water skin. She nods, unscrewing the cap, waiting a few moments for her breathing to slow, before she takes a swig, then another, from it. She passes it to Faleron, who does the same.</p><p class="p1">When Neal walks back to Cleon, he notices that the other boy is frowning, ever so slightly.</p><p class="p1">“What’s wrong?” Neal murmurs.</p><p class="p1">Cleon’s head snaps up abruptly, and he looks at Neal, a terrible attempt at looking innocent on his face. “What? What makes you think something’s wrong?” the redhead asks.</p><p class="p1">Before Neal can open his mouth to explain to Cleon how terrible a liar he is, Cleon has already turned back to the courts and Faleron and Kel. “Alright, Kel, Faleron. Ready for round two?”</p><p class="p1">They are.</p><p class="p1">The second round is <em>much</em> more interesting; the contrast speaks to how much he and Cleon must have distracted them the first time.</p><p class="p1">Faleron has a year’s head-start on training to Kel, and it shows, a little bit; his footwork is excellent, and his blows are very quick. But if Faleron’s blows are quick, Kel has superb reflexes, and the cool head that means she thinks, even in the middle of a bout.</p><p class="p1">Faleron disengages from their parry, and rather than another swooping overhead blow that will just rebound off Kel’s strength, he twists his arm and wrist, starting a side cut towards Kel’s ribs.</p><p class="p1">Kel’s eyes flick to the side, seeing the movement in her peripheral vision. Then she drops to her knees, ducking her head, letting Faleron’s strike whistles over it. Then she rises an inch, sword blurring in her hand as she reverses her grip. Faleron is stumbling for a single step, trying to recover from his unchecked momentum, to spin back towards her.</p><p class="p1">Before he can, Kel thrusts her blade forward, one hand on the pommel, the other hand in a pincer-grip on the flat of the practice blade. Holding it sideways, as it’s a quarterstaff that just happens to be flat and edged, rather than round. Thrusting it forward, all the way to the backs of Faleron’s thighs.</p><p class="p1">Neal whistles, shaking his head in amazement, and applauds with Cleon, even as part of him winces at the damage that move would do to hamstrings, thigh muscles...possibly even some of the femoral veins. </p><p class="p1">“Yield,” Faleron says, with a wry smile. He looks up and glances at Neal. “I don’t suppose you could help beat some more skill into me?”</p><p class="p1">“What else are friends for?” Neal says cheerfully, walking forward onto the practice court. “By the way, Kel, that last move. I don’t suppose they taught it to you in the Isles?”</p><p class="p1">“No. But what else could I do? The strike came in far too soon for me to parry it or deflect it.”</p><p class="p1">“In other words, you made it up,” Neal says, shaking his head wryly. Of course she did. Use your sword as an oddly-shaped staff in the middle of a bout? That’s classically Kel.</p><p class="p1">Kel scowls at him, and opens her mouth to say something, when Cleon’s voice cuts through the air. “Well, it <em>worked</em>, Neal.”</p><p class="p1">Neal holds up his hands, palms out. “Easy! I’m not criticising. I’m just amazed, as always, that you can think in a fight.”</p><p class="p1">“…oh.” The tension in Kel’s shoulders eases, and she bites her lip for a moment, before she smiles at him, the hint of colour she always gets with compliments starting to show in her cheeks. “Thank you.”</p><p class="p1">He claps her on the shoulder, and unsheathes his wooden sword, going to square off against Faleron. “Anytime.” He looks at Faleron, whose breathing is steady again, and whose sword is relaxed in his hand. “Best of three?”</p><p class="p1">“You’re on.”</p><p class="p1">Neal wins the first bout and the last bout. In between, he gets stupid and cocky and overextends himself in a lunge. It leaves his ankle and lower leg vulnerable for one moment, but it’s enough, as Faleron takes a leaf out of Kel’s book, taking a single skipping side-step and lunging forward. His sword thuds against Neal’s ankle in the moment before Neal can withdraw from his own lunge. </p><p class="p1">“Yield,” Neal says, dryly. But at the same time, he can’t help but smile at the look of realisation and triumph dawning on Faleron’s face.</p><p class="p1">They take a breather, and afterwards, Neal squares off against Kel. He takes a deep, meditative breath, as they study each other in silence.</p><p class="p1">Even after only three years, Kel is <em>very</em> good with a sword. Kel has good reflexes; she trains with weighted weapons; and she has a knack for finding her opponent’s weak spot.</p><p class="p1">Neal, on the other hand, had followed his older brothers and an assortment of cousins during holidays into courtyards from the age of six, and been tossed a short practice sword. He’d started lessons with his first tutor one year later, and drilled with the sword for eight years, before he ever started page training.</p><p class="p1">Kel can think in a fight. Kel can think and move, in the span of one breath. But thinking and moving still means that you are reacting, <em>not</em> acting in a fight.</p><p class="p1">Neal can’t think in a fight, not nearly as well. But he knows the sword like he knows his own Gift, and he does not need to stop to think.</p><p class="p1">The first bout, he evades her heavy overhead and side-cuts, forcing Kel to work twice as hard to land a hit. When he finally stops skipping back and sideways, he steps forward and halfway into a lunge. Kel brings her sword up, deflecting with his blade, and Neal doesn’t resist the recoil that the clash of blades creates; instead, he allows his blade to rebound away, and, with a twist of his wrist, circles his sword down to thwap against her ribs.</p><p class="p1">“Round to Neal,” Cleon calls.</p><p class="p1">Kel nods, breathing heavily. Neal picks up the water-skin, and drinks from it, and then hands it to her. She drinks, too, and then they square off again.</p><p class="p1">The second time, she is less aggressive, more cautious. Neal dodges the first overhand cut; skips back, flicking his sword up, when she reaches out with another back-hand side-cut, and brings his sword down with all his strength. The momentum forces the point of Kel’s blade down towards the dirt of the practice courts, and Neal brings his blade up, a heartbeat ahead, and his side-cut hits her thigh this time.</p><p class="p1"><em>Great femoral vein</em>, his anatomy training says again, and sometimes, he wishes the damn thing would shut up.</p><p class="p1">The third bout lasts longest. After Cleon calls for them to begin, Kel doesn’t move; she stands there opposite him, her sword still steady in its guard position. Waiting for him to move.</p><p class="p1"><em>Better than not thinking, Kel, but that’s the same mistake all over again</em>.</p><p class="p1">He moves sideways, circling forward; Kel moves to the other side, and they create a clockwise circle together, moving closer together, slowly.</p><p class="p1">When the space between them is only two sword-lengths apart, Neal breaks the stalemate. He thrusts forward, rebounding of the deflection to segue into a side cut. Kel parries each blow, unmoving as a mountain, strong, steely resistance that makes Neal’s wrist ache from the recoil. But rather than fight it, Neal twists slightly on his feet, and redirects his sword into another overhand cut.</p><p class="p1">Kel blocks again, putting the strength of her whole right arm into it, and he rebounds off the blow, using the time she needs to relax her stance bring his sword onto the shoulder of her arming jacket.</p><p class="p1">“Yield,” Kel says, her tone flat.</p><p class="p1">Neal wipes the sweat from his brow, and slides the practise sword into his scabbard, before he claps her on the other shoulder.</p><p class="p1">Kel looks at him, irritation in her eyes, as she wipes her own forehead. “I thought I was getting better,” she says, a note of disgust in her voice. She stares at her still-unsheathed practice blade, as though it has betrayed her.</p><p class="p1">Neal shakes his head. ‘You <em>are</em>.” Because she really, really is. Seven-year head-start or no, Kel has finally reached a level of skill where she <em>can</em> spar with him, however briefly, and that is no small thing. Not at <em>all</em>.</p><p class="p1">“Did you even come close to losing, in that whole set?” Kel demands, putting her hands on her hips.</p><p class="p1">Neal loves Kel, he really does, but sometimes, it amazes him how she can miss the obvious.</p><p class="p1">He sighs. “Kel. If I’d started learning the glaive three years ago, would you expect me to beat <em>you</em> with it? In a fair bout?”</p><p class="p1">Kel opens her mouth, and then closes it again, and Neal nods, glad to see her actually considering the question. He picks up the water skin, and takes a drink from it, then another.</p><p class="p1">“It’d depend,” she says, at last. “You’re quick, and you’re good, but I’m…I am still better than you with a staff. So with a glaive…”</p><p class="p1">“Just so,” Neal agrees. Slowly, the anger in her stance begin to drain away. <em>Thank the gods.</em> “Kel, you trained at from age six with a <em>much</em> longer weapon. I trained from age seven with a sword. Even leaving that aside, I have a <em>bit</em> of a head-start on you.”</p><p class="p1">He smiles at her, seeing her expression start to shift, into what he’s christened the ‘<em>Mithros, I hate it when you’re logical</em>’ look. She doesn’t give it to him often – he prides himself in being the foolish one in this friendship, thank you – but strange things happen, sometimes.</p><p class="p1">“I suppose you’re right,” she grumbles.</p><p class="p1">He pushes the water-skin into her hands, and flings an arm around her shoulder, grinning at her flustered expression.</p><p class="p1">“Of course I am. Haven’t you learned anything by now?”</p><p class="p1">She looks up at him, grudging agreement and amusement and something else warring in her eyes, and he just grins back at her.</p><p class="p1">There’s the sound of someone clearing their throat, and Neal looks up, to see Faleron and Cleon standing at the edge of the practice courts. Faleron looks amused, but Cleon’s arms are straight by his side, his hands flexing. His expression, too, is very pointed, and – Neal blinks in astonishment – that might actually be <em>irritation</em> flashing in his grey eyes.</p><p class="p1">“If you’re done horsing around, Neal,” Cleon says, and yes, that’s definitely irritation. Odd. Cleon may be one of the most easygoing fellows Neal’s ever met. “Kel, perhaps I could show you a twist that Inness taught me?”</p><p class="p1">Kel nods, eager, and Neal slowly withdraws his arm around from her shoulder, going to stand where Cleon was just standing.</p><p class="p1">Faleron nudges him. “I’m going to go wash up. Want to come?”</p><p class="p1">Neal shakes his head. Washing the sweat and exertion of the past hour away is tempting. Mysteries, much more so. “No, I think I’ll stay and watch.”</p><p class="p1">Faleron shrugs. “Suit yourself. See you later, then.”</p><p class="p1">Neal sits down – it has been <em>quite</em> the vigorous hour –and settles into watch. Not whatever move this is of Cleon’s, though any other time, he’d be genuinely interested to see it. No, this is just to watch Cleon.</p><p class="p1">He demonstrates the move to Kel a few times, and then, when she mimics it, Cleon reaches out and gently adjusts her elbow, and then where she has her feet.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Huh.</em>
</p><p class="p1">It <em>could</em> be purely innocent, Neal thinks, his eyes narrowing as a suspicion suddenly catches in his mind.</p><p class="p1">It could be. But it isn’t. Because there’s a gentleness to Cleon’s movements as he corrects Kel’s movement, on the second repeat, and a deep pink blush on his cheeks.</p><p class="p1">Well, well, well.</p><p class="p1">Neal smirks.</p><p class="p1">This is going to be interesting.</p><p class="p1">The sweat has dried on his skin, and in late January, that is an <em>incredibly</em> uncomfortable sensation. But Neal sticks it out, and when Cleon and Kel stop practicing half an hour later, both of them agree with him when he suggests that it’s the best chance they’ll get to wash up before supper.</p><p class="p1">Neal waits until he and Cleon are alone in the bathhouse pool. Then he grins at him, and says, without preamble: “So, how long have you had feelings for Kel, anyway?”</p><p class="p1">Cleon chokes on thin air, and turns red as a beet for a long moment, before he sighs.</p><p class="p1">And just like that, his body language relaxes. Neal will never understand how anyone can be so easygoing.</p><p class="p1">“I guess I’ve never been that subtle,” he says.</p><p class="p1">Neal shrugs. “If today was any example, then no, you haven’t been,” he agrees. “But you’re not getting out of the question so easily. Come on, tell! It’s not like you don’t know all about my embarrassing crushes anyway.”</p><p class="p1">“Everyone knows about your embarrassing crushes, Neal,” Cleon protests, rubbing a wet hand up the side of his face. “Or at least all of our friends do.”</p><p class="p1">“True, but irrelevant.” Neal grins at him. “Come on, Kennan, tell.”</p><p class="p1">Cleon sighs, looking at the water for a long moment. But Neal’s learned a trick or two from Kel, too, over the past few years. He leans back against the stone of the pool, and waits.</p><p class="p1">“I don’t really know when it started,” Cleon admits. “I just…I know I realised this past year, when we all returned to Corus. Remember, when Seaver started talking about how I never talk to the rest of us like that?”</p><p class="p1">Neal snorts. “You don’t flirt with all the lads in our group? Shocking, really. Utterly shocking.”</p><p class="p1">“Yes,” Cleon says, “except that’s when I realised that I’d <em>been</em> flirting with Kel. And…well, that–because Kel <em>isn’t</em> just one of us lads.”</p><p class="p1">…Oh. <em>Oh</em>, that – that does explain a great deal, Neal thinks, suddenly, leaning back against the edge of the pool, as his world tilts.</p><p class="p1">But she’s twelve and a half, part of him protests, outraged, squawking furiously.</p><p class="p1">Twelve and a half, another part of him thinks, but she'd had to kill a man by the time she was twelve.</p><p class="p1">Is Neal really going to mimic a conservative busybody, and say that Kel’s old enough to kill someone, but not old enough to flirt? Not old enough to be liked, and to like someone back?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> Old enough to kill, but not old enough to kiss?</span></p><p class="p1">And at the end of the day, it <em>isn’t his decision</em>.</p><p class="p1">It’s Kel’s.</p><p class="p1">He notices that Cleon is looking at him with a faintly worried air, and a frown on his face.</p><p class="p1">“What is it?” Neal asks.</p><p class="p1">Cleon raises his eyebrows. “Aren’t you, oh, going to warn me off? Make noises about her good reputation and chivalry? Tell me that I should be ashamed of myself?”</p><p class="p1">There’s bitterness in Cleon’s voice when he says that last part, and Neal sits up a little straighter in the bath, frowning at the younger boy, because–</p><p class="p1">“Cleon, why do you think you <em>should</em> be ashamed of yourself?”</p><p class="p1">Cleon splashes the water in frustration. “Because this is Kel! You and I spent my last year as a page making sure that nobody spread a single word of gossip about her anywhere we could hear it.”</p><p class="p1">“We did. What does that have to do with the price of peas?”</p><p class="p1">Cleon opens his mouth, and then, after a long moment, closes it again. Shrugs, and says, rather miserably: “I <em>don’t know.”</em></p><p class="p1">Neal leans back, lacing his fingers behind his head, as he tries to think. Cleon is quiet; the only sound is the water rippling, when he draws his finger in loops and doodles on the surface of the pool.</p><p class="p1">“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Neal says. “But I think you’re conflating two different things. You’re thinking of the cruel rumours that Joren and his crowd like to spread about Kel, and you having a crush on her, and thinking that they’re <em>both</em> somehow…I don’t know, slurs against her reputation, or black marks against her. But they’re not.</p><p class="p1">“You’d need to be careful, if you ever wanted to pursue anything with Kel. She has to keep her door open, no matter what, on pain of immediate expulsion.”</p><p class="p1">Cleon splutters. “I’m not going to–”</p><p class="p1">“<em>Never</em> say never,” Neal advises, unable to keep the dryness out of his voice. “But that’s beside my point. What I’m saying, Cleon, is that you’re not wrong to be concerned. Gods know the people who hate her will do anything to try and get her kicked out. But that is not a reflection of <em>you.</em> You are not them. You’re her friend, you care about her, and you like her. And that, in and of itself, does no harm to Kel, or her reputation at all.”</p><p class="p1">Cleon’s eyes are wide with hope and amazement, as he leans forward, staring at Neal. “It doesn’t?”</p><p class="p1">Neal shakes his head. He refuses to repeat that speech, after the sheer amount of physical exertion he’s already done today.</p><p class="p1">Cleon sinks back into the pool, looking profoundly relieved. Then, after another few moments, the expression of worry returns to his face, stronger now.</p><p class="p1">“Spit it out,” Neal orders, as he closes his eyes. The water is soothing and soft, and all of his muscles are gloriously relaxing.</p><p class="p1">Cleon’s worried voice: “But what if Kel hates me for it? What if she doesn’t want me to pursue anything with her? I don’t think she’s ever liked anyone among us, you know. And even if it would be anyone, I’d expect it to be you.”</p><p class="p1"><em>That</em> makes Neal’s eyes fly open, because no. No <em>way</em>. There is no way in the name of Mithros, the Great Goddess, or any other interested deity that <em>that</em> is true.</p><p class="p1">Kel is <em>Kel</em>. Practical and fierce, twelve-year old idealism powered by a heart of gold, carefully protected by stone walls and Yamani calm. She wields wisdom that makes her seem a hundred years older, and a glaive that’s as tall as she is, with the same casualness that other people tie shoelaces.Kel would be the last person in the Palace to get romantic about one of her year-mates.</p><p class="p1">And even if she did, <em>Neal</em> – cynical, mad Neal; rash, sarcastic Neal; too-old, bookish, <em>over-</em><em>sensitive</em> Neal – would be the <em>last</em> person in the Palace she’d develop a crush on.</p><p class="p1">Cleon shrugs at him, looking defensive. “It sometimes seems like she can read your mind, Neal, or that you can read hers. You can’t tell me that you don’t know her better than any of the rest of our group. And…sometimes, she just looks at you like…”</p><p class="p1">Neal laughs, relief making it a little too loud, especially with the way the bathhouse echoes. He doesn’t care.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, Mithros,<em> that’s</em> what you’re talking about!” He shakes his head. “No, Cleon. No. It’s just – you’re right, Kel and I <em>are</em> close. But that’s just because sometimes, I try to push her. Try and make her let some emotion out, instead of keeping it behind her Yamani mask.”</p><p class="p1">Carefully, Neal pushes away a few inconvenient arguments against that; Kel’s cheeks bright red, when he told her about tracking down <em>Fourteen Dances;</em> her smile sometimes faltering, when he’d talked about Uline.</p><p class="p1"><em>Can’t be</em>, he tells himself. There’s a much simpler explanation for that. Kel feels things deeply, for all she doesn’t show it much. She would have been flattered by <em>anyone</em> looking for two days until they found the right book. And of course her patience had faltered when he’d rambled about Uline; gods above, Jessamine would have knocked him out halfway through reading aloud the second ridiculous love poem.</p><p class="p1">Neal pushes the inside of his lip into his mouth, ever so slightly, and bites down, till the sensation draws him out of contrary thoughts, and back into his body, back to the edge of the bathhouse pool.</p><p class="p1">Cleon’s eyes are considering, as he leans back a little. “I suppose you do tend to act the gadfly,” he says, thoughtfully. “It doesn’t make her upset with you?”</p><p class="p1">Neal shrugs. “Sometimes. But we’re friends. If you can’t get over arguments, then it’s not worthy of the name.” He hesitates, thinking back to that one moment in his room last year, when his playful jab about "love-stuff" had made her coil tight as a spring. He can’t betray her confidence, but he has to let Cleon know to tread softly. “Cleon, I don’t know that she <em>would</em> be interested. Not because it’s you, but in anyone. Kel’s said once or twice that she doesn’t have a romantic bone in her body.”</p><p class="p1">“She might,” Cleon says, his tone some combination of argumentative and hopeful.</p><p class="p1">“She might,” Neal agrees. Cleon relaxes, at Neal’s refusal to argue. Neal goes on: “And unless you let her know that you’re interested, you won’t really find out, one way or the other.”</p><p class="p1">Cleon’s smile is wry. “I suppose so. Does that mean I have your blessing?”</p><p class="p1">Neal chokes on thin air. Did he just act like– “Mithros, Kennan, <em>I'm not</em> <em>that</em> <em>old!”</em></p><p class="p1">Cleon’s grin widens. “Just kidding.”</p><p class="p1">The resulting splash-fight takes about half an hour more out of their time, but that’s alright. That’s what Sundays are for.</p><p class="p1">“You really aren’t worried?” Cleon asks him, as they dress to leave the bathhouse.</p><p class="p1">Neal pulls on his tunic. “Why would I be worried?”</p><p class="p1">“That I’ll hurt her.”</p><p class="p1">Neal considers.</p><p class="p1">He thinks he sees what Cleon is driving at. It is, in most parts of Tortall, something of a tradition, for brothers, cousins or various fraternal figures, to gang up on a girl’s intended, and threaten him with various slow, painful deaths, if he should ever hurt their sister.</p><p class="p1">…But hurting, Neal realises, with a blinding flash of realisation, just comes with love. It hurt him this last summer, to see Kel standing there at the bottom of the trail, taking the rear-guard. It hurt him, when he thought she hadn’t noticed his gift, and it had made his day twice as bright when she explained no, she had. It hurts him, still, those increasingly rare moments when she climbs down from a height, her face white as a sheet.</p><p class="p1">If Cleon loves Kel, she will hurt him. And if Kel loves Cleon, then yes, he will hurt her. Rather: in both cases, if they love each other, they will sometimes hurt, because of the other.</p><p class="p1">And as frightening as that is, Neal has no right to protect Kel from that. Nor, for that matter, should he <em>try</em>.</p><p class="p1">If Kel’s brave enough to pursue love – and she’s brave enough to pursue a shield, so he will put nothing past her – it falls to Neal to honour her courage and her choice. Not to insult it.</p><p class="p1">Neal smiles at his thoughts, surprised and yet pleased with the direction they’ve taken.</p><p class="p1">“No. No, I’m not worried about that,” he answers. He runs his fingers through his hair, thinking how to convey his reasoning. After a few moments, he gives up and decides to answer Cleon’s question for what the other boy is <em>really</em> asking. “You’re a good man, Kennan. You’d never hurt her intentionally.”</p><p class="p1">“I’d sooner die,” Cleon agrees, relief sweeping across his features. Together, they tug their cloaks on, and walk out of the bathhouse.</p><p class="p1">“That <em>is</em> convenient,” Neal says dryly. “Because – consider this the obligatory friendly warning, Cleon – if you ever did, I <em>would</em> make you regret it.”</p><p class="p1">“If the rest of our friends didn’t get to me first,” Cleon says, amiably, entirely unfazed by this prospect. Neal smiles. “Or her family.” </p><p class="p1">Neal feels his smile turn a little wolfish, at <em>that</em> opening. “Oh, I’d <em>forgotten</em> her older brother is your knight-master!” he says, his voice deliberately sing-song.</p><p class="p1">He feels a bit guilty afterwards, for shamelessly harping on about that point. After that bout of teasing, it takes Cleon two more months to muster the courage to <em>try</em> to kiss Kel. But he tries; the night before he and Sir Inness are due to return north, Cleon tugs on Neal’s ear for luck, and walks Kel back to her room.</p><p class="p1">Neal is, somehow, not entirely surprised, when Cleon drops by his room later that night, a hangdog look on his bluff features.</p><p class="p1">“Lalasa and her friend were there,” Cleon says, gloomily.</p><p class="p1">Neal winces in sympathy. He can't imagine telling a girl he likes her under <em>any</em> circumstances, let alone with an audience.</p><p class="p1">“You’ll try next time,” Neal says, as encouragingly as he knows how.</p><p class="p1">“No, I won’t,” Cleon says, still looking utterly morose. Like a kicked, wet puppy.</p><p class="p1">Neal turns the subject to other matters, deciding that melodrama had better remain his province. It doesn’t look good on Cleon.</p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“So tell me,” Kel asks, as they walk towards the waiting room of the exam. Towards their second-last hurdle, towards their final year of the little exams. Neal knows perfectly well that they’re going to pass, and his hands are clammy with stress regardless. “Is it worth all this struggle?”</p><p class="p1">He glances at her, confused, and she shrugs, before elaborating. “You could have been a healer by now, with a university credential, and friends your own age. Aren’t you sorry to have missed that?”</p><p class="p1"><em>Oh.</em> </p><p class="p1">The only sound is their shoes on the corridor floor, as Neal thinks about that question.</p><p class="p1">She’s right. In the time it’s taken him to become a third-year page, he could have received his healer’s credentials. Even started a Mastery, or advanced theoretical work, or gone straight to the field.</p><p class="p1">And part of him pangs for it. For the magic, for the learning, for the world of academics and debate. Part of him longs for it still.</p><p class="p1">But it’s only a part of him, he realises.</p><p class="p1">For the most part, he is happy to be here.</p><p class="p1">Neal blinks, realising that.</p><p class="p1">It’s not that he’s happy being five years older than his year mates. But at the same time, he <em>is</em> happy that he’s here.</p><p class="p1">Despite all the pain, the frustrations of lessons that he could do in his sleep, the loneliness that comes with being almost an adult but surrounded by much younger children – despite this, he is happy that he is here.</p><p class="p1">He is happy he has chosen this path.</p><p class="p1">No-one forced him to become a page. He chose it, albeit with some reluctance. Because his brothers were dead, because the realm was at war, because there was no more such thing as a spare son, not when everyone was needed. Because his family had a <em>legacy</em>, and someone had to shoulder it.</p><p class="p1">That had been why he withdrew from the university, and walked into the Stump’s office in April.</p><p class="p1">But...</p><p class="p1">Classes with Tkaa, and Master Salmalín. Running across the parapets, tiring and exhilarating all at once. Midwinter snowball fights, and teasing gifts from his friends that blazed with how deeply they know him.</p><p class="p1">Spidren young screaming as they burned. Neal's sword coming to move like an extension of his own body. The King, standing in the mess hall, eyes ablaze in the candle-light, telling them all: “You are the treasure of the kingdom." </p><p class="p1">The silent camaraderie of diving into a fight together to defend your friend’s honour; the silent support of bearing the punishment together. Pulling Merric to the floor of the cave, so he wouldn't kill himself from sheer pride.</p><p class="p1">A ten-year old girl, with a calm face and dreamer's eyes, standing tall and straight and lessoning him on the heart of chivalry. Putting all his philosophers to shame. </p><p class="p1"><em>Is</em> Neal sorry to have missed the years he would have had at the University?</p><p class="p1">“No,” he says, at last. “No, I’m not. The physical training, well, I couldn’t be a knight without it, and I started late. Nothing would change that struggle. And it’s true at the university, I would never have spent so much time with anyone so much younger than me.” He grins at her. “I definitely would have lost something, in that case. These little fellows here aren’t always testing each other – unlike,” he puffs his chest out, deliberately mock-silly, and bows. “Males of my advanced years, of course.”</p><p class="p1">Kel grins at him.</p><p class="p1">He smiles back, and decides that she deserves to know the full truth.</p><p class="p1">“And honestly, I wouldn’t give up your friendship for all the healer’s credentials in the world.” His voice says the words naturally, unaffected, and he’s grateful for that. It feels vulnerable enough admitting it, as is.</p><p class="p1">Kel looks at him, her eyes wide. “Me?” she asks, astonishment in her tone.</p><p class="p1">Neal rolls his eyes, affection sweeping through him.</p><p class="p1">“You,” he confirms. They enter the waiting room, and find themselves the first pages there. He leans against the wall, crossing his arms, thinking back to that first lesson on chivalry. His world has never really been the same, ever since. “You are an education, Keladry of Mindelan.”</p><p class="p1">Kel tips her head to the side, a sparrow-like movement that makes him grin,and puts her hands on her hips. “I’m not sure that was a compliment,’ she says, archly.</p><p class="p1">Neal grins back. “Neither am I,” he teases.</p><p class="p1">(He’s lying. It was most certainly a compliment.)</p><p class="p1">Something in his tone makes colour rise to her cheeks, as Seaver, Merric, and Owen walk through the doors and join them. Kel points at him sternly, but her eyes are pleased and fond.</p><p class="p1">“You will pay for that on the practice courts,” she says.</p><p class="p1">Neal grins, even as Owen changes his path immediately to come beside him and clap him on the shoulder. “It was good knowing you,” he says, solemnly.</p><p class="p1">Neal shrugs. He knows Kel’s threat isn’t idle; while she can’t beat him in a sword-match yet, he’s still quite sure the key word there is <em>yet</em>. But he’s used to her making him work.</p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Today is the day of the big exams. It’s the most important day of Neal’s life to date, and he is sure about three things.</p><p class="p1">First, this is the most stressful day of his life.</p><p class="p1">Second, Kel – Kel, who never cries, but is now trying to stem silent tears as she talks about Lalasa being <em>her</em> responsibility; whose strength and steel is running through every line of her body language right now, shoulders level, her chin already raised in defiance–</p><p class="p1">Second, Kel is a chivalrous idiot.</p><p class="p1">Third, whoever has done this had best pray that the Palace Guard gets there first. If Neal gets his hands on them, murder will be done.</p><p class="p1">Kel smiles weakly at him, wiping the last of those silent tears from her eyes. “I just want to be the second-oldest page in living memory, you see.”</p><p class="p1">Neal’s heart is breaking, but he shakes his head. Because this is Kel, who has taught him every lesson he’s ever learned about the place where the romance of honour and chivalry meets the rocky, messy world where you practice it.</p><p class="p1">“No, you won’t,” he says. His voice trembles as he says it, and he takes a deep breath for calm. It’s a weak attempt, but he has to try. “We’re friends. I’ll help. Between the two of us–”</p><p class="p1">Kel’s eyes go wide, and she almost snarls. “Absolutely not,” she says, her voice fierce. “No, no, <em>no!” </em>One hand goes to her hip, and the other flies up into the air, gesturing emphatically. “They win twice then, don’t you understand? Get to the assembly room!”</p><p class="p1">Her voice cracks command on that last sentence, and Neal hurriedly drops his gaze. Because if he meets her eyes, he’ll follow her orders, and <em>no</em>. Not this time.</p><p class="p1">He will not abandon her. He will not leave her to fight this cruelty alone. <em>He will not do this to her</em>–</p><p class="p1">Strong hands are wrapping his arm, and Kel is <em>pulling</em> him towards the door. Neal’s legs move to keep him upright, as Kel says: “You can be my knight-master when I do take the exams, if you want to make it up to me. Neal,<em> please</em>. Don’t make me responsible for you both!” <em>Huh? </em>“She wouldn’t be in this trouble if not for me!”</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Goddess’ tears, Kel!</em>
</p><p class="p1">Kel shoves him out the door, sending him sprawling into Gower’s bewildered arms. Thankfully, the manservant catches him, with a polite, “Excuse me, master.” Turning to Kel, Gower continues: “She’s not in the infirmary. Miss, you must get to the examinations.”</p><p class="p1">“I’ll catch up with you,” Kel says to Neal, glaring at him pointedly.</p><p class="p1">He doesn’t care about the warning in her gaze in that moment. Even the thought, <em>gods, Mindelan, who taught you how to lie like that</em> is an idle thought, skipping across a sea of horror and fear and outrage.</p><p class="p1">After four years of shared pain and struggle, four years of arguments and making up, four years of learning side-by-side and having each other’s backs– she thinks he can just leave her to <em>go this alone</em>?</p><p class="p1">Kel finishes issuing Gower’s orders, and looks at him. She takes a deep breath, and grabs hold of his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes.</p><p class="p1">“Neal,” she says, her voice soft as water, stone-unyielding. “If you are my friend, <em>go</em>.”</p><p class="p1">He runs, with one thought forming in his mind as he shoots through the hallways: <em>Kel, you need remedial friendship lessons.</em></p><p class="p1">He leaps around the Lord Magistrate as he passes him in the corridor. The old man will certainly be offended by the flagrant disregard for manners. Neal has never cared less in his life.</p><p class="p1">He gets to the stairs to the next level, and takes them three at a time. As his feet hit the landing, he runs again. His heart is pounding in his ears; he has to dive past and under two people on the way, three, if you count an outraged court lady’s trailing skirts as their own entity.</p><p class="p1">Finally, Neal hurtles through the open doors of the examination room. At the last moment, he sees Seaver, Merric and Esmond clustering near the doors; he converts his momentum into a desperate roll, and avoids knocking them down by a hair.</p><p class="p1">His year-mates immediately pull him to his feet, even as they look at him wide-eyed, even as they look behind him. Because Neal is here without Kel, and it’s as wrong as him turning up without his own shadow.</p><p class="p1">“Where’s–” Seaver begins.</p><p class="p1">“No time,” Neal tells him, breathless, as he looks around the room. There are the King and Queen in the benches, there are the nobles of the court–</p><p class="p1">There. There in the front row, seated near the Shangs and Sergeant Ezeko, there is the Stump, Lord Wyldon, his nemesis, there is, <em>irony of ironies</em>, the only man that Neal trusts right now.</p><p class="p1">Because the Stump has surprised him once before, and Neal knows that if there’s one thing the Stump cares about, if there is one thing he can count on to be <em>rigidly inflexible about</em>, it’s duty. Duty above all else.</p><p class="p1">And that might just be the thing that saves Kel, today.</p><p class="p1">Neal looks at the Stump, reads the concern in his dark, intent eyes, and walks forward, taking meditation breaths to calm himself as he crosses the room.</p><p class="p1">“Queenscove. You look harried.” The Stump frowns, glancing at the doors of the exam room, knowing as well as Neal does that Lord Turomot is – at <em>best</em> – between five and ten minutes away. “Where is Mindelan?”</p><p class="p1">Neal takes a ragged breath, because gods help him, he <em>wishes</em> he knew.</p><p class="p1">The frown deepens, and dark eyes snap. “Queenscove. <em>Report</em>. Where is Mindelan? Has she taken ill? Unconscious?”</p><p class="p1">Neal shakes his head, grimly, thinking that at least the Stump has realised it would take something like that to keep Kel form the big exams.</p><p class="p1">“No, sir. Neither of those things.” He squares his shoulders, and lifts his chin a little higher, holding the Stump’s gaze. “It’s Kel’s maid, sir. Lalasa Isran. Someone’s kidnapped her, to keep her from coming to the exams. They’ve threatened to hurt her, if Kel tells.” </p><p class="p1">For a single moment, the Stump’s face goes blank with shock.</p><p class="p1">“Queenscove,” he begins, his voice stiff.</p><p class="p1">Neal interrupts. “Sir, I’ll ask to be<em> truth-spelled</em>, if you need that to believe me! But Kel’s maid was supposed to come back last night, and she didn’t<em>.</em> This morning, she was <em>gone. </em>Then Kel got a note, after she started to look for her, because she thought something might have happened. My lord, the note said, and I quote: ‘She is in the palace. You can find her if you look. Tell anyone and we will hurt her.’”</p><p class="p1">Lord Wyldon inhales sharply, his eyes going wide as he registers that, and he lets his breath out slowly through his nose.</p><p class="p1">Neal continues to stand at attention, glad, for once, to see the signs of the man controlling his temper. Just this once, it means he’s <em>listening</em>.</p><p class="p1">“A page being kept away from the exams by such a thing has never happened before,” the Stump says. There is mounting anger in his eyes, and his voice is dangerously calm and quiet.</p><p class="p1">Neal’s mouth is desert dry, but he can’t back down, he can’t let this happen without <em>trying</em> to do something about it<em>.</em> </p><p class="p1">“Yes, sir,” Neal says, “but no-one’s ever had so much riding on proving a page can’t be fit for knighthood before, either.”</p><p class="p1">The training master bows his head, pondering that, and Neal tenses, waiting for an explosion.</p><p class="p1">It doesn’t come.</p><p class="p1">The Stump’s eyes are cool when he raises them again, and his voice is as level as though this is any ordinary situation, when he speaks. “Lying was never one of your vices, Queenscove. As you’re also volunteering to be truth-spelled, I am willing to accept your account of the situation. How credible do you believe the threat against the maid is?”</p><p class="p1">“I – I don’t know, sir,” Neal says, weakly. He tries to fit his mind around that fresh new puzzle, through the feeling of shock that this half-baked hope is working, that the Stump actually believes him.</p><p class="p1">A small corner of his brain takes the moment to inform Neal that he’s never going to be able to think the man’s nickname the same way ever again, after this.</p><p class="p1">“Your best guess, Queenscove. <em>Now.”</em></p><p class="p1">The Stump’s voice, too, cracks command, and Neal’s panic slides away at the sound. “‘You can find her if you look’ – they <em>want</em> Kel to search, sir. They wanted her to miss the exams. Unless they’re planning to hurt Kel too–” his voice cracks at the thought, and he takes a breath, getting his nerves under control.</p><p class="p1">The Stump gives him a nod that’s almost encouraging. The world really has gone mad.</p><p class="p1">Well, mad or not, Neal only has one option left.</p><p class="p1">He keeps going, rolling on from his previous thought: “Unless they’re planning to hurt Kel too – and I can’t believe they are, given just the <em>legal</em> penalties for hurting a noble, or someone who’s legally a child still– I don’t think they care if Kel finds Lalasa – her maid – and takes her home. That argues they’re not going to be there. Whoever set this up knows Kel. They have to know that if Kel ever met whoever did this to her maid, she – she wouldn’t <em>rest</em> until they were punished.Not even if it took the rest of her life.”</p><p class="p1">He’s breathing hard when he comes to the end of that sentence, and he is not expecting for the Stump to nod, his expression full of grim agreement.</p><p class="p1">“My surmise was similar,” he says. “All the same, considering certain…<em>hostilities</em> Mindelan has faced in her training–” and imperceptibly, for a heartbeat, the older man glances to the benches near the other end of the exam hall.</p><p class="p1">Neal looks with him, and sees Joren, Vinson and Garvey, sitting together, looking at the assembled fourth-year pages.</p><p class="p1">They’re too far away for Neal to see their faces, but Neal fought all three of them, week after week, for two years. Neal knows the body language of when they’re smirking.</p><p class="p1">His hands clench into involuntary fists.</p><p class="p1">“My thoughts exactly,” Lord Wyldon continues. “Given that, I think it would be best to handle things <em>discreetly,</em> lest anybody be tempted to further…interference.”</p><p class="p1">A grim smile tugs at the corner of the training master’s mouth, making the scars on his face stretch. He continues: “I will inform their Majesties presently, and the Lord Magistrate as soon as he enters. It’s an irregularity to protocol, which will vex him, but this allegation will enrage him. Even if we find out that no harm has befallen the maid, it is still clearly a case of coercion.</p><p class="p1">He holds Neal’s gaze, firmly. “We will search for her, Queenscove. And we will find her. But now,understand this. The best way you can help Mindelan right now is by taking your examination, and pretending that<em> nothing </em>is wrong<em>.</em>”</p><p class="p1">Neal sucks in his breath, even as the pieces fit together in his mind, because the thought of doing this without her hurts inside, a sharp stabbing ache.But without his consent, his tongue grudgingly says: “That’s what Kel said.”</p><p class="p1">“<em>Move</em>, Queenscove,” Lord Wyldon says, tone brusque. He is already rising to his feet and turning in the direction of their Majesties.</p><p class="p1">Neal moves.</p>
<hr/><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p1">Afterwards, he does not remember a single moment of his exams.</p><p class="p1">He spots his parents in the crowd, once or twice. Both of them look proud, and deeply concerned at the same time. He spots Kel’s parents, a few times. Their faces are stone-blank; but faint movement suggests that her mother is fidgeting, and there is a tightness around her father’s eyes.</p><p class="p1">Neal goes through the academic exams, knowing full well that, for all he cares about what he’s saying, he might as well be speaking in Carthaki or Gallan. He pulls himself together for the physical part of the exam, if only because it’s much harder for his mind to wander when he’s doing something physical than it is when he’s talking.</p><p class="p1">They finish the exams. The names of the pages who have passed are always read out in the alphabetical order of fief. Neal had once anticipated being a nervous wreck by the time they finally got to ‘Q’. </p><p class="p1">In a sense, that prediction has come true. When Lord Turomot’s dry, reedy voice announces “Nealan of Queenscove”, to the sound of applause, Neal finds himself utterly apathetic to the fact that his first phase of knight training is now over. He is wringing his hands together, thinking about Kel's tears and her determination. </p><p class="p1">He keeps wringing his hands, as the pages and audience disband for lunch, barely noticing the worried looks his friends keep shooting them, as their families shepherd them away.</p><p class="p1">He wrings and twists his hands together, even as shadows fall over him.</p><p class="p1">“Neal?” his father's voice. “Neal, son, what’s wrong?”</p><p class="p1">“What’s happened to Keladry?” his mother’s voice, low with her worry. “Something’s happened to her, hasn’t it?”</p><p class="p1">Neal can’t move, can’t speak, <em>can’t stop wringing his damned hands</em>. The distraction of the exams is over, and now all he can think is Kel, the gods alone know where, facing gods alone know what, in search of Lalasa.</p><p class="p1">“Queenscove,” at last, someone says, in a voice that penetrates every haze of fear the same way an arrow parts skin. “Get up. You do her no good sitting here.”</p><p class="p1">Neal swallows, and Lord Wyldon hauls him to his feet.</p><p class="p1">“Is there any word–” he begins.</p><p class="p1">Lord Wyldon shakes his head curtly, and Neal slumps.</p><p class="p1">He feels his mother’s arm wrap around his shoulders.</p><p class="p1">Lord Wyldon glances at him a second time, his expression classically Stumpish, but when his eyes meet Neal’s, something in his face softens for a heartbeat.</p><p class="p1">“I will send a runner to find you, as soon as we have word,” he says, tone utterly matter-of-fact.</p><p class="p1">With that, he is striding from the practice courts, leaving Neal to be led – somewhere, who knows where – by his parents.</p><p class="p1">“The infirmary,” Father says, grim humour in his voice, when Neal finally comes back to reality enough to ask about it. “If I know your friend at all, we’ll need a bag ready for when they find her.”</p><p class="p1">A bag. Supplies. Healing supplies. Yes. Yes, Neal can do that.</p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">In the end, Lord Wyldon doesn’t need to send a runner. Sparrows come instead, landing on Neal's shoulders and hair, one hovering and circling in front of Baird, cheeping frantically. The final member of the group flaps towards to the infirmary door.</p><p class="p1">His father grabs the bag they’ve assembled, as Neal opens the door. They follow the sparrows at a run, and arrive in the courtyard below Balor’s Needle five minutes later. There they find Kel, Lalasa, Gower, and Lalasa's friend – whose name Neal can never remember – and oddly enough, Daine.</p><p class="p1">Daine nods at them, when she sees them, and walks over, delivering a summary in her blunt, concise way. Lalasa had been kidnapped, tied up and gagged, and left on the top of Balor’s Needle.</p><p class="p1">(For hours. On a day with a very chill dawn. And left abandoned in the windiest point of the Palace, Neal thinks, and bites back sulphurous profanity.)</p><p class="p1">The sparrows had found her, and led Kel to the Needle. Kel – who faces bullies and the Stump without turning a hair, but who used to throw up every time she had to climb a tree – had had to climb up the Needle.</p><p class="p1">(Neal bites back more profanity.)</p><p class="p1">She had arrived at the top, untied Lalasa, untied Jump, who had also been taken, and then had tried to lead them down the inner stair. The door to which had been closed, due to a coincidental towering gale, and somehow also, coincidentally, <em>locked</em>.</p><p class="p1">(Neal is distracted from the desire to curse by the suddenly-appearing question: <em>just how much magic</em> did those coincidences take?)</p><p class="p1">Kel and Lalasa, carrying Jump between them, had then had to climb downBalor’s Needle. And they had. At some point during this little caper, however, Kel had gotten <em>spikes of</em> <em>rusted iron</em> driven three inches deep into the calf of her left leg, on both sides of it.</p><p class="p1">Neal is already crouching beside her to see the injury, green fire sparking around his hands, only half-listening to the rest of summary.Kel and Lalasa had gotten down from Balor’s Needle eventually, and from there, Kel had sent the sparrows for Daine, due to Jump being injured.</p><p class="p1">Neal almost laughs hysterically when Daine says that part. Of course. Of course Kel sent for the Wildmage to look after the dog's leg, instead of <em>sending for a human healer to make sure she doesn’t contract blood poisoning.</em></p><p class="p1">Thankfully, <em>Daine</em> – unlike Kel, unlike his other and probably better half, unlike his best friend – has a shred of common sense. So, when <em>she</em> arrived, she sent the sparrows to find Neal’s father; Sir Myles; the head of the Palace Watch; and anyone else the sparrows think ought to come.</p><p class="p1"><em>When this is over, I owe Daine a really good book,</em> Neal thinks, relieved that the sparrows came and retrieved <em>him</em>, not just his father.</p><p class="p1">He’s so relieved he doesn’t even care when clopping hooves announce that the sparrows have led Peachblossom into the courtyard.</p><p class="p1">“Not today,” he tells the monster flatly, as the gelding draws up alongside him. “She’s hurt.”</p><p class="p1">Peachblossom snorts, and stomps his hoof. Then he lowers his head to lip at his erstwhile rider’s hair.</p><p class="p1">Focussing, Neal peers at the injury, taking care to set his hands on the knee and ankle, a relatively safe distance from the wound. There is still at least one spike of iron embedded in one of the wounds, under Kel’s makeshift bandage. He thinks it has gone through at least one nerve path on one side, and that perhaps the same thing has happened on the other side of her leg, too. But the embedded spike has missed any major tendons; only one ligament is only partially damaged; and it’s recent enough that blood-poisoning won’t be able to set in, if they act now.</p><p class="p1">Neal sets his hands on Kel’s left knee, and, forcing himself to into meditative breathing once more, pours his Gift into her leg.</p><p class="p1">First priority: prevent infection, and clean the wound. He doesn’t dare look at her, when he hears her ragged gasp of pain. He grits his teeth instead, and continues to breathe, until he has drawn out wave after wave of green fire, and the wounds are <em>– finally</em> – clean.</p><p class="p1">He runs through the meditation once more for good measure, and sends a wave of soothing, alleviating magic through her. Her breathing eases, and he feels her leg relax under his hands.</p><p class="p1">Only then does Neal dare to look up at Kel.</p><p class="p1">She’s smiling. Some of the tightness in his chest eases.</p><p class="p1">Her eyes are blinking slowly, sleepily. Half her hair is slathered with horse spit, and her mouth is curving into a soft smile. She looks at him, her face open and happy, with nothing but something soft, fond, warm in her gaze.</p><p class="p1">“Hello, Neal,” she says.</p><p class="p1">That’s it? “Hello, Neal.” As though they’re meeting on a perfectly pleasant summer’s day, and nothing at all is wrong with the world. </p><p class="p1">“Hello yourself,” he tells her, more huskily than he intends. It’s a side-effect of the tears of relief he can feel springing to his eyes. “Kel, have I told you lately that you’re an idiot?”</p><p class="p1">She purses her lips, sleepily thoughtful. “No. No, I don’t think so.”</p><p class="p1">“I should have,” he tells her, blinking back the tears. He keeps his hands steady around her leg, and sends a third wave of pain-relieving magic through her. “It’s generally a good idea, when you get rusted iron in your flesh, <em>to call for a human healer.</em>”</p><p class="p1">Kel looks a little mulish at that, suddenly looking rather younger than thirteen. The effect is adorable, and Neal can’t help a soft laugh, as he draws out a fourth wave of his Gift, slowly, steadily. </p><p class="p1">“Was worried about Jump,” Kel yawns, her face more relaxed now.</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="Apple-converted-space"> Beside her, there's a soft, high-pitched giggle, semi-hysterical. Neal finally realises that Lalasa is here, too; sandwiched between Kel on one side, and her uncle on the other. Her dark eyes are wide, and there's something about her face that suggests she's still in shock; but she's looking at Kel with amusement in her smile, and fondness in her eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="Apple-converted-space">Neal makes eye contact with her for a moment, and silent understanding and agreement passes between them, about Kel. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="Apple-converted-space">Then Neal gives her a crooked smile. <em>I'm glad you're alright now,</em> he tries to tell her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="Apple-converted-space">Lalasa's eyes drop away, but her smile widens. If he's not very much mistaken, that's something like: <em>I will be</em> and <em>thank you</em>.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="Apple-converted-space">Kel is still talking, slowly, her words slurred: "Someone hurt...his leg. He was defending Lal'sa..."</span>
</p><p class="p1">“I know,” Neal tells her. “Daine's already tended to him. But I’d <em>really</em> like it if you could worry about yourself, sometimes, Kel. It’d save me so much effort.”</p><p class="p1">Kel’s smile at that is drowsy and soft; the tightness of pain has gone from her face. Baird kneels down beside Neal to see the leg. Good. His father can deal with the wound. Neal can deal with Kel’s missing self-preservation instinct.</p><p class="p1">“I worry ‘bout myself…plenty,” Kel objects, through a yawn. Her words are slurred, and her head is tilting to one side.</p><p class="p1">Neal scrambles over to Kel’s side, offering his shoulder. A few moments later, her body, exhausted from stress and the terror of climbing and the healing, decides that keeping her head upright is far too much effort.</p><p class="p1">She slumps against him, then lets out a sigh, nestling in closer. Her eyes drift shut. Apparently, his chest is an acceptable substitute pillow, and she’s had enough of pressing business for today.</p><p class="p1">Neal wraps an arm around her, too relieved for words. If they didn’t have a slowly-growing audience, he would be scolding her for making him worry, in harsh muttered whispers; he would leaning his nose against her temple, soaking in the rise and fall of her chest, and the fact that she is alive, and she will be well.</p><p class="p1">Instead, he just holds her, until Father looks at him, with worry in his eyes.</p><p class="p1">“We need to move her. The pages’ wing will be closer than the infirmary,” he says. “She shouldn’t put any weight on that leg. Are you strong enough to carry her?”</p><p class="p1">Neal looks at the unconscious Kel, a bit doubtful. Not so long ago, he would have been sure. But she’s almost as tall as he is, even though she's four years younger, her body as strong as his from their training. No, he’s not sure he can guarantee being able to carry her from here to her room.</p><p class="p1">Behind him, a hoof stomps; moving carefully, Neal twists at his free shoulder and cranes his neck around to meet Peachblossom’s liquid gaze. For once, it’s not filled with a menacing desire to bite.</p><p class="p1">Rather, the big gelding nickers, and lips at Kel’s hair once more.</p><p class="p1">Neal quirks an eyebrow.</p><p class="p1">For once, he and the monster are cooperating. Talk about an impossible day.</p><p class="p1">“If you can take her as far as the staircase inside the Palace, I can get her to her room,” Neal tells the gelding.</p><p class="p1">Peachblossom’s ears swivel, and he nickers softly.</p><p class="p1">A lifetime at court and two years at the University let Neal half-listen to the buzzing conversation around them, as delays appear. Half-listening is necessary because of the sudden, crashing feeling of <em>relief</em> in his veins, the realisation that Kel is going to be alright is sinking into his bones and making his hands tremble, ever so slightly.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> But what he gleans, in his frazzled state, runs thusly:<br/>
<br/>
</span>The Watch insist they need <em>someone</em> to stay and talk about the events of the day.</p><p class="p1">Gower and Lalasa's friend both volunteer.</p><p class="p1">The Watch needs to go see the men who were cornered by Palace dogs, because Daine thinks the two incidents might be connected.</p><p class="p1">Daine volunteers to escort Lalasa and Jump.</p><p class="p1">Someone needs to go tell Kel’s parents what has happened and where to find her.</p><p class="p1">Father volunteers Sir Myles for that duty.</p><p class="p1">Neal only gets involved when Head of the Palace Watch promises him that he’ll find Neal and Kel tonight for their accounts of the day’s events. He adds, with an apologetic twist to his face, that it’s best to get these things while they’re fresh.</p><p class="p1">Neal nods absently, by way of reply, and then the courtyard becomes suddenly, blissfully quiet, as people flit to their assigned tasks.</p><p class="p1">Neal puts Kel’s arm around his shoulder and one arm around her ribcage. He lifts her to her feet, and then heaves her onto Peachblossom’s broad back. As Peachblossom begins to walk forward, slow and easy, Neal walks closely beside him; one hand on Kel's thigh, one hand around her hips, keeping her upright.</p><p class="p1">As he, Peachblossom and his father are walking Kel back to the Palace, Lord Wyldon meets them on the Palace steps, looking harried. The expression changes to confusion, then astonishment, as he sees them: Peachblossom, stepping daintily up the stairs, Kel unconscious on his back, Neal using both hands to keep her upright.</p><p class="p1">Then the old man just smiles, and comes around to Kel’s other side, reaching up to the small of her back and her waist to help maintain her balance.</p><p class="p1">The most motley procession in history, Neal thinks, smiling wryly, shifting his grip to compensate. Accompanying an unconscious conquering hero.</p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Things happen strangely after that.</p><p class="p1">Neal and Lord Wyldon set Kel down on the bed. Baird shoos them over to the window seat, before he begins to cut away Kel’s ruined, torn hose.</p><p class="p1">Some time later, who knows when, Kel’s mother and father appear in the doorway. Their faces are flushed, their eyes tight with worry and concern. Their eyes quickly sweep the room, and they cross the room to their daughter’s bedside in three or four steps, oblivious to the presence of anyone else.</p><p class="p1">“Come, Queenscove,” the training master says, his voice almost soft. “Let’s leave them to it.”</p><p class="p1">“We will await our explanation here, Lord Wyldon,” Kel’s mother says, without turning around. Her voice is deep, musical, and – like her daughter’s – brooks no argument.</p><p class="p1">“I will return in two bells’ time. Hopefully, with a more full explanation than what I have now,” the Stump replies. His face is solemn, and there’s that odd near-softness in his voice again.</p><p class="p1">Then he gestures curtly, and Neal stands. As he does, he feels an odd, full-body sensation of lightness and weakness; his head is aching fiercely, and, somehow, it also feels like it might float loose from his shoulders.</p><p class="p1">He sways sideways, and feels himself caught. Lord Wyldon forces him down onto the window seat, muttering a low, soft curse under his breath.</p><p class="p1">“Queenscove? What is it?”</p><p class="p1">Neal has no idea. He just knows that standing is impossible, that his tongue is dry as a desert, and that his pulse is <em>far</em> too fast for a healthy young man who’s just been seated for the past five minutes.</p><p class="p1">A gentle slap against his cheek draws him from his silence, and Neal manages to meet concerned dark eyes. “Shock,” he croaks. “I think.”</p><p class="p1">The familiar coolness of his father's magic wraps around him like a caress, and Neal sighs. Then Baird says, with wry humour in his voice: “Not yet, son, but you’re close. Wyldon, send for a servant, please; he needs food and fluids. We skipped lunch, he had the physical exams before that, and he’s been sick with worry since breakfast.”</p><p class="p1">Oh. So that’s what’s happened to him.</p><p class="p1">“I think Kel keeps some dried fruit for the sparrows somewhere,” the Baron says, turning away from the bedside.</p><p class="p1">A few moments later, Neal realises the man is standing in front of him, with a jug of water, a glass, and Kel’s little drawstring bag of dried fruit in front of him.There’s something very wrong with this situation, Neal thinks fuzzily, but he’s not sure what, exactly.</p><p class="p1">The Baron doesn’t really seem to care. He makes sure Neal drinks two glasses of water, slowly, before opening the drawstring bag, turning Neal’s hands up and emptying the bag into his palms.</p><p class="p1">Neal eats until the dried fruit is gone, and realises afterward that he no longer feels like a rambunctious kitten could knock him over.</p><p class="p1">The Baron is looking at him. His hazel eyes are intent and focussed, searching, underneath a pair of very long lashes. Neal meets his gaze, and the older man smiles.</p><p class="p1"><em>Oh</em>, Neal thinks. <em>So that’s where Kel gets it from.</em></p><p class="p1">“Wyldon has gone to get some more food,” the Baron says gently. “Tell me. Do I understand correctly that you are the one who informed Lord Wyldon about Lalasa’s kidnapping?”</p><p class="p1">Neal nods, feeling a little embarrassed. How, exactly, do you explain to your best friend’s father that you didn’t have the courage to resist her command to leave her alone to risk her dream, her life, and possibly, her neck?</p><p class="p1">A slow, thoughtful smile creases across the Baron’s face. “Kel <em>ordered</em> you to go to the exams, didn’t she? After you learned about it?”</p><p class="p1">Neal nods, feeling very small, very inadequate. Kel had ordered him, and he had <em>gone</em>, instead of fighting her.</p><p class="p1">“So you did, but not before you told Lord Wyldon exactly what was going on,” the Baron says, and his smile is broadening. “Well done, Nealan. <em>Very</em> well done.”</p><p class="p1">He blinks, too stunned by the praise to object to his full name. His mouth opens and closes silently, even as a plate with berries, apple slices, cold ham, beef, a bread roll and sour cabbage is shoved into his hand.</p><p class="p1">By the time he’s worked his way through the berries and the apple slices, his brain – still baffled by the situation – has started to form words again. The Baron is still standing in front of him, even though he’s turned to look in the direction of the bedside.</p><p class="p1">Neal glances over; Kel’s face is still slack from unconsciousness, but his father straightens up, surveying her left leg with a look of satisfaction. When Neal catches his eye, Baird smiles and nods once.</p><p class="p1">Neal lets out a sigh of relief, and lets his head fall into his hands, dragging his fingers through his hair. At least there’s that. At least Kel’s leg will be alright.</p><p class="p1">“Here, now, what’s this?” the Baron asks.</p><p class="p1">“What? I mean, what do you mean, my lord?” Neal asks, raising his head to meet the older man’s eyes.</p><p class="p1">“You have the look of a young man reproaching himself for not doing better. Why?”</p><p class="p1">Neal licks his lips. “Sir – sir, I <em>should</em> have. I should have gone with her, sir.”</p><p class="p1">The Baron shakes his head, and begins to open his mouth, only to be cut off by a deep, dry voice coming from Neal’s right.</p><p class="p1">He turns his head to see the Stump. “If you’ll pardon my interruption, Baron Piers.”</p><p class="p1">The Baron shrugs, and the Stump leans forward, his eyes dark and serious. “Queenscove, listen closely. You will <em>never</em> know what you would have been able to do, had you gone with Mindelan. But you must not torture yourself for that.</p><p class="p1">“My lord–”</p><p class="p1">The Stump does not even reprimand Neal for trying to interrupt. “You must not torture yourself with visions of a hypothetical perfect scenario, when you have already acted, with courage, and chivalry, and honour. More than that, you acted <em>correctly.</em></p><p class="p1">“Queenscove, <em>because</em> you went to the examinations without her, I could see, from the moment you stepped in, that something was deeply, gravely wrong. As loyal as you both are to each other, I would never have been shocked if you were missing simultaneously. But if that had happened, Queenscove, there would have been no-one to brief me in time to ensure that Mindelan <em>would</em> <em>not</em> be forced, as a summary matter, to repeat all four years.”</p><p class="p1">Neal feels his jaw drop.</p><p class="p1">The Stump smiles wryly at him. “As it’s at least partially a criminal matter, and he is the chief examiner, the ruling is turned over to the hands of the Lord Magistrate. He will have to announce it this evening. But mark this; if no-one had briefed me, it would have been in <em>my</em> discretion. And I would have felt obliged, in the absence of an explanation, to abide by the precedent that has been set; even though the only thing Edmund of Rosemark has in common with Page Keladry is that they both yet retain all of their limbs.</p><p class="p1">“So: the baron is right, Queenscove. You did well today. Accept it, and stop this foolish exercise in self-blame.”</p><p class="p1">Neal is still staring at him in disbelief at the backhanded praise, when the Stump gets to his feet.</p><p class="p1">“Now, if there’s nothing else, I had best find Ezeko and brief the rest of your cohort. The rumours will have reached epic scale by now.” The Stump stands, bowing to the baron. “Baron Piers, I hope to return in an hour and a half. Failing that, I will return before the pages are due for supper. Queenscove, you may remain until then.”</p><p class="p1">“Oh, good,” Father says, as he crouches down to meet Neal's eyes.He reaches up and puts a hand on Neal’s forehead, then takes Neal’s wrist in his hand, humming thoughtfully as he feels his pulse. “I’m glad he said that; I’m not sure you should be moving till around then, anyway.”</p><p class="p1">“I could be,” Neal protests.</p><p class="p1">Father's face is full of exasperated affection, as he rolls his eyes. “Nineteen or no, graduated page or no, I <em>do not care</em>, Neal. Right now, here are your orders, from your father and your healer: finish your food, drink some more fluids, stay <em>still</em>, and <em>rest. </em>Preferably, quiet resting.”</p><p class="p1">His father's Gift washes through him once more, coolness through his temples, his body, his legs, and Neal can’t help but give a sigh, as his body relaxes.</p><p class="p1">“Don’t worry, Baird,” Kel’s mother says, sounding amused. “I’ll supervise. If I think he’s pushing it, I’ll whack him on the head with a fan.”</p><p class="p1">“You’re a true friend, Ilane,” Father chuckles.</p><p class="p1"> Father takes Neal’s face in his hands, a warm, proud look in his eyes, and kisses him on the forehead. Then he is standing, slinging his bag back over his shoulder. Neal waves goodbye to him, as he exits the room.</p><p class="p1">It is only Kel, Neal, and Kel’s parents in the room now. And Kel’s parents are looking between him and Kel, looking at Kel and then at him. Until, after a few moments, the Baroness Ilane chuckles.</p><p class="p1">Then, together, they both turn to look at him.</p><p class="p1">“You interrupted before Piers could get this far last time,” Ilane says, a smile on her lips, and wry amusement in her eyes. “But I’ll try again. Neal, thank you. Thank you for being a true friend to our Kel today. Thank you for being willing to risk so much for her.” </p><p class="p1">Heat floods his cheeks, and his mind goes blank at the praise. He opens his mouth, but he can’t seem to form words.</p><p class="p1">Kel’s parents just look at each other, with amusement on their faces, and then Ilane looks back at him.</p><p class="p1">“I’ll go ask Salma for another mattress,” Ilane says, smiling. “Somehow, I don’t think you’ll fit into Lalasa’s cot, Neal.” </p><p class="p1">Neal tries to protest. He’s cut off by short whistling noise, and a <em>whack</em> of light wood and paper against his head.</p><p class="p1">“Resistance is futile,” the Baron warns him, his eyes dancing, as Neal rubs the sore spot on his head.</p><p class="p1">It really is.</p><p class="p1">The Mindelans push furniture to the borders of the room. They direct Gower and Faren to set the mattress down on the floor, right beside Kel’s bed. They sit down next to him, chivvying him into eating his vegetables, and laughing when he tells them that Kel does the same thing. They ask him easy questions, about their training, about which classes he enjoyed the most. They insist he call them both by name. Ilane’s smile is wide and proud when he tells them that, although Kel can’t yet reliably beat him with a sword, he’s almost certain that’s because she’s <em>that</em> good with a glaive, and the weapons are rather different.</p><p class="p1">Neal finally gets up, puts his now-empty plate on the dresser, and then looks at the bed and the mattress.</p><p class="p1">Kel is still fast asleep on her bed. Her arm is tucked up in front of her head on the pillow, as though she’s decided to stretch her shoulder, even in her sleep. Peering closer, Neal can see that her face is relaxed and peaceful. So relaxed, in fact, that a small spot of drool has formed underneath her mouth. </p><p class="p1">He chuckles, storing deep inside his heart another moment that he’s never going to tell anyone about. And then he eyes the mattress on the floor, thoughtfully.</p><p class="p1">He truly doesn’t feel tired or drowsy. Not really. But neither does he feel inclined to let Kel out of either his line of sight or hearing range; at least for the next three days, potentially for, well, <em>ever</em>.</p><p class="p1">And the mattress <em>does</em> look comfortable.</p><p class="p1">And lying down <em>would</em> feel so, so good, after a <em>very</em> busy day–</p><p class="p1">Neal takes off his boots and lies down on the mattress, feeling rather grateful that, although both the Mindelans’ eyes are twinkling, neither of them say anything about it.</p><p class="p1">“Sleep well, Neal,” Ilane says.</p><p class="p1">She sounds almost <em>fond</em> when she says it.</p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">Neal only realises that he’s dozed off when he wakes up, to the sound of voices outside the room. He sits up, looking around.</p><p class="p1">Ilane and Piers are nowhere to be seen. Neither is Kel.</p><p class="p1">Neal is already on his feet, moving to the door. His hand is on the knob and turning, when finally, the sounds resolve into coherent words, from recognisable voices.</p><p class="p1">“So, Mindelan,” the Stump asks, his tone bland, “what do you think is about to happen?”</p><p class="p1">Neal slumps in relief. She’s alright.</p><p class="p1">Kel says nothing for a long moment, then says, puzzlement in her voice: “I’ll repeat the four years, I suppose, my lord.”</p><p class="p1">Neal draws breath, wanting to say exactly what <em>he</em> thinks about that idea, but before he can, the Stump responds.</p><p class="p1">“Have the past four years been so easy, Page Keladry?” The Stump’s tone is dry, dry. Amused.</p><p class="p1"><em>Gods</em>, but if he was misleading Neal earlier, Neal is going to string him up from a grim and gruesome height. By his <em>toes</em>.</p><p class="p1">“I don’t think anyone thinks page training is easy, my lord,” Kel says, and her voice doesn’t so much as <em>waver</em>. “But I did not attend the examinations. I know the penalty.”</p><p class="p1">There is silence in the corridor, and Neal’s grip tightens on the door-knob. <em>Breathe,</em> he reminds himself. <em>You have to breathe.</em></p><p class="p1">“Gods, Mindelan,” the Stump says, at long last. His voice is warm, and full of wonder. “I would you had been born a boy.”</p><p class="p1">Neal carefully removes his hand from the door-knob, so as not to hint to his presence, and throws his hands up in exasperation. Just a hypothetical. He’d been <em>testing</em> her. What the bloody blazes is <em>wrong</em> with the Stump’s head?</p><p class="p1">“Now, you need to eat, and so does Queenscove. I’ll expect the both of you in the mess hall within five minutes. I briefed the cohort two bells ago, but I suspect your friends will not begin to calm down unless they see both of you, alive and hale, with their own eyes.”</p><p class="p1">“Yes, my lord,” Kel says.</p><p class="p1">The Stump turns, and his footsteps fade down the hall.</p><p class="p1">Neal skips back from the door, just in time to avoid being hit in the middle with it, as Kel opens it.</p><p class="p1">He looks at her, and feels relief mount in his chest again. She’s dressed in a fawn-coloured dress; her hair is damp and neatly combed. More importantly, she’s standing, alive and <em>well</em>, cheeks pink with colour, her eyes blazing with anger and worry.</p><p class="p1">Wait. That part’s not so good, Neal’s brain informs him, as Kel closes the door behind her.</p><p class="p1">“What the blazes did you <em>do, </em>Neal?” Kel demands, looking at him, her hands going onto her hips. “I wake up, and you’re on a mattress on the floor, <em>next to my bed</em>, of all things, with Lord Wyldon and my Mama standing on the other side. And all they’ll tell me when I try and ask them about it is tell me that you ‘exerted yourself on my behalf today, and rather overdid it!’<em>”</em></p><p class="p1">Oh. No wonder she’s worried. They couldn’t have given her a more vague explanation if they’d <em>tried</em>.</p><p class="p1">“I’ll explain what they meant,” he promises. “Just let me wash up? I’ll need to borrow your dressing room. And…” Neal glances down at his clothes and smiles wryly. They’re far from the pristine condition they were in this morning. “Would you mind grabbing a set of clothes from my room? We do need to be in the mess in five minutes.”</p><p class="p1">“<em>Neal.”</em> Strong fingers come under his chin, tilting his head up, so that Kel’s terrified gaze catches his. “Just – please. <em>Please</em> tell me that you didn’t skip the exams for my sake.”</p><p class="p1">Oh. Oh, <em>Kel</em>.</p><p class="p1">He brings his hands up to rest over hers, smiling fondly at her.</p><p class="p1">“I didn’t skip the exams. I passed,” he tells her.</p><p class="p1">Kel’s eyes are searching his, boring into them. Neal holds her gaze, seeing the worry and terror in her eyes, and unable to stop himself from smiling back.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Some day, Kel, I’m going to get it through to you that you don’t need to shoulder every burden alone.</em>
</p><p class="p1">Slowly, the worry drains from her eyes, and Kel's face relaxes. Then she pulls him to her, in a tight, fierce hug. “Don’t you <em>ever</em> scare me like that again.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> Her voice is stern, and has the tiniest hint of a shake in it.</span></p><p class="p1">Neal snorts, around the sudden full-to-bursting feeling in his chest. “Mindelan, have you forgotten exactly what happened today? Because that’s definitely <em>my</em> line.”</p>
<hr/><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p1">The world refuses to go back to normal, even once they get to the mess.</p><p class="p1">He and Kel walk into the mess, shoulder to shoulder, and silently their trays and cutlery, before walking to the servers. The day’s been too long for some things, so Neal eschews complaining verbally about the vegetables, restricting himself to a roll of the eyes as he heaps a spoonful of sour cabbage onto his plate.</p><p class="p1">So far, so normal.</p><p class="p1">Except for when Kel and he both pass the squires’ tables.</p><p class="p1">As they do, Garvey jeers: “I bet she hired those men to get out of her exams.”</p><p class="p1">Neal stops in his tracks, feeling rage spring up in a moment.</p><p class="p1">The feeling of rage deepens, as he hears Vinson add, in his nasal drawl, “I knew she’d crumble at the last moment. Females always do. Been…<em>comforting</em> her, Queenscove?”</p><p class="p1">The world tinges red at the edges, and Neal's hands itch with the urge to hit them, then and there. But Kel's fingers grip his shoulder iron-hard, silently signalling: <em>let me handle this</em>.</p><p class="p1">She turns to the older boys, pivoting on her feet in a light smooth motion. Her arms are full with her tray, but she tips her head to one side, and shifts her weight, cocking her hip in a deliberate taunt.</p><p class="p1">“Who could be afraid of the big exams?” Kel asks, her voice arch. “After all – you two passed them.”</p><p class="p1">A laugh bursts from his throat at the unusually frank retort. He continues walking to the table with their friends, with a sigh of relief as he catches his breath. Kel's right; she can handle herself.</p><p class="p1">“When do you leave?” Joren asks, coolly.</p><p class="p1">“I won’t,” Kel says, and Neal knows that note in her voice. Knows that her eyes are shining, knows that her voice is determined and fierce, knows that her head is held high proudly.</p><p class="p1">They don’t know yet, for sure, what the Magistrate’s decision will be, though Neal has a strong hunch. But Kel’s will is like steel, and Neal knows that she means what she says. No matter what, Kel will <em>not</em> leave.</p><p class="p1">“You expect us to believe you mean to do all four years again?”</p><p class="p1">“Believe what you like,” Kel says, her voice pleasant, before she walks away, catching up with Neal just as he reaches their table.</p><p class="p1">Their friends, all of them, <em>have</em> been near-frantic with worry. They immediately mob them both with questions - where have you been? What happened? Yes, Kel, we know about Lalasa, but are <em>you</em> alright? Neal, where have you been all afternoon? Why didn’t you tell us anything?</p><p class="p1">Kel tries to answer the first two questions, but gives up after she’s interrupted mid-answer twice in a row. Neal lets it go on for two more questions, and then holds his hand up, palm out.</p><p class="p1">“<em>Lads</em>,” he says. “In case you haven’t done the math yet, Kel has not eaten or drunk anything since <em>breakfast</em>. For the love of all that is holy, will you please hold off on your questions till we actually get to <em>eat</em>, at least?”</p><p class="p1">That makes them subside, a bit, and Kel shoots Neal a quick smile. He pours juice, for himself and for her.</p><p class="p1">The awkward silence persists until Owen pipes up. “At least tell us if you’re feeling alright, Kel. That one’s simple and quick enough to answer.”</p><p class="p1">Kel smiles at the third-year. “I <em>am</em> feeling alright, Owen. Thank you.”</p><p class="p1">Neal is moving with the others, responding automatically as the pages and squires all rise to their feet, before he even truly registers that the Stump has approached the lectern.</p><p class="p1">“Mithros and the Goddess, we pray you, grant us our blessing,” the Stump says, and Neal’s eyes widen.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Did he just–</em>
</p><p class="p1">“Strip the veils of hate from our eyes, and the grip of bitterness from our hearts. Teach us to be pure in our souls, dedicated only to service, duty and honour.”</p><p class="p1">“So mote it be,” Neal says with the others, through his astonishment.</p><p class="p1">The rest of the meal continues strangely. Their friends wait until Kel has taken about four bites of their food. As soon as she swallows that fourth time, Merric starts asking questions again; then Faleron, then Roald. Kel dodges, evades and ducks, each time, instead asking Seaver and Merric and Esmond about the exams. Sensing her refusal to discuss it, they turned questioning eyes on Neal.</p><p class="p1">“Neal–” Merric begins.</p><p class="p1">Neal shakes his head. “If Kel doesn’t want to talk about it, then I’m not going to either.”</p><p class="p1">That earns him an expression from her that is both exasperated and affectionate at the same time, before she turns back to the table, and asks their year-mates at large what the exam with the quintain had been like.</p><p class="p1">The supper hour is almost half passed, when the door of the mess opens.</p><p class="p1">Neal’s breath catches in his throat when he sees Duke Turomot walk in the door.</p><p class="p1">He stands on suddenly trembling legs, and his friends, then the rest of the mess hall, follows suit. The conversation hushed in the hall, with only a few idiotic souls whispering before their words cut-off mid-sentence.</p><p class="p1">The Chief Magistrate walks to the Stump’s dais, and Neal clenches his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms, and orders himself,breathe. <em>Breathe</em>, Queenscove.</p><p class="p1">The Stump and the Magistrate only confer for a few moments, but it feels much, much longer before the training master helps the aged duke up onto the lectern.</p><p class="p1">The duke glares at them all from the lectern. Neal knows from long experience, though, that that’s the man’s default expression.</p><p class="p1">“Silence,” he orders them, issuing the most redundant order in history. “Evidence has been given, and confession made. Two men were paid by an as-yet unknown third man to force Page Keladry of Mindelan to either be late for the fourth year examinations, or be unable to attend altogether. Said coercion being out of the control of Page Keladry, or of Lord Wyldon, her training master, it is hereby ordained that in two days time Keladry of Mindelan shall present herself in the First Court of Law of the palace in Corus at the second bell of the morning. There and in the practice courts, she shall be given the appropriate fourth-year tests by the regular examiners.”</p><p class="p1">For a moment, the hall is silent.</p><p class="p1">Then it is not. Shouts of confusion, cheers of praise and glee from their friends. Owen is whooping like a madman; their second and first-year friends are jumping up and down, cheering; Cleon cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “<em>Mindelan!</em>”</p><p class="p1">Faleron and Neal take it up as a chorus: “Mindelan! Mindelan!”</p><p class="p1">It provokes a shout of rage from one end of the squires' table.</p><p class="p1">None of the study group gives a damn. Neal shouts louder, feeling the rest of his friends, even neutral-to-a-fault Prince Roald shouting together with him: “<em>Mindelan!</em>”</p><p class="p1">Even through the din of the hall, the heavy black-wood staff pounding on the lectern slowly penetrates. “Order! <em>Order!”</em></p><p class="p1">The din quiets, but only slowly.</p><p class="p1">The old man glares at them, his chest heaving indignantly. “There is no reason for this unseemly display,” he says, sternly, in a fine display of how respect for tradition can make it <em>so</em> easy to lose touch with reality. “If any such occurs on the testing day, I will have those responsible ejected from my presence.</p><p class="p1">Issuing the threat seems to calm the old man down, and he continues, looking slightly less red-faced. “Heralds have been sent to announce the new day of testing. Furthermore, the one who perpetrated this defilement of the law and exams will be found and duly punished. With the guidance of Mithros, we will achieve a fair solution.”</p><p class="p1">“So mote it be,” the mess hall choruses.</p><p class="p1">The magistrate leaves, wrapping his robes around him very tightly. Neal is still looking in his direction, when he hears the Stump’s voice from the lectern.</p><p class="p1">“Provided that Keladry of Mindelan passes her fourth-year examinations in two days, we will hold the celebration for the new squires on that evening. Page Keladry, Page Nealan, report to me when you have finished your meal.*”</p><p class="p1">As everyone sits again, Neal exchanges glances with Kel, seeing the question he’s thinking reflected in her eyes. <em>Now what?</em></p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Two days later, they sit down in the same spots in the mess, as he’d known they would. Two days later, the Stump assumes the lectern once more.</p><p class="p1">And, as he’d known would happen, since the moment she strode into the exam room that morning, her shoulders straight and not a hair out of place, the Stump says: “New squires, you are seated in the wrong places.”</p><p class="p1">Side by side, Kel’s left flanked by Esmond and Seaver, and Merric on Neal’s right, Quinden bringing up the rear, they walk to the foot of the squire’s table.</p><p class="p1">“But of course,” Neal murmurs in Kel’s ear, as they sit. “You knew all along you’d do it.”</p><p class="p1">Kel looks at him, shrugging. For somebody who successfully turns the Palace on its ear on a regular basis, there’s an amazingly peaceful smile on her lips.</p><p class="p1">“One way or another.”</p><p class="p1">Neal looks at her, and says frankly: “You terrify me, sometimes.”</p><p class="p1">Kel laughs and elbows him in his ribs, and together, they turn to their meal. </p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">There is much more to stories of colour and fire than frightening villains or flowery language. Transcendent passion is awoken by something far deeper than a lovely face; things filled with grandeur are sometimes wrapped in ordinary packaging.Sometimes, love comes without labels, without heralds’ proclamations, without making itself known in grand soliloquy.</p><p class="p1">Sometimes, love does not share a border with romance.</p><p class="p1">But love will always be love, and it makes itself known regardless: a word of encouragement; a smile, a compliment. Through sincere apologies and fierce sparring matches.</p><p class="p1">Sometimes, love has nothing to do with attraction, with that swooping, tugging sensation in the gut.Love is still transcendent passion. Love will, nonetheless, inspire two days of searching for the perfect book; it will create a pathway to a conversation that is strictly forbidden; it will inspire a cynic to place desperate trust in the man he cordially detests.</p><p class="p1">Love is sometimes subtle, and always dramatic; always the stuff of stories and legends.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>1. I adore how hyper-competent Kel is with her weapons. However, in this case, Neal has a seven-year head-start on formal sword-training; and the kind of thinking on her feet that makes Kel an excellent commander means she can lose in a sword-bout against an opponent who, when it comes to a sword, doesn't need to think. Especially if, unlike the bullies she faces, that opponent doesn't waste time and energy, or slow themselves down, by trash-talking her and underestimating her.</p><p>2. Writing jealous Cleon is fun. Writing Neal having no idea about Kel's crush is hilarious. Writing them in the same scene is SO MUCH FUN.</p><p>3. When Cleon walks Kel back to her rooms, he tugs on Neal's ear "for luck." And Neal doesn't say anything. It implies he already knew about Cleon's crush, and that he wanted to get up his nerve to kiss her. This is my take on how Neal might have reacted, to the thought of someone wanting his younger best friend. </p><p>4. I have a soft spot for fics where Kel's friends all go protective big-brother on her potential love interests. Part of me thinks it's sweet. But also, that talk always seems to ignore a fundamental fact of life; relationships are hard work, and people inevitably hurt each other during them. Most of the time, not intentionally at all. And there's a big distinction between <em>hurt</em> and <em>harm.</em> Allowances should be made for the first, though not the second. </p><p>5. I also have a hard time seeing Neal seriously deliver a proper shovel talk. While he's protective of Kel's wellbeing and her reputation, he's never paternalistic. Like he says to her of wanting her shield in First Test: "If that's the life you want, you ought to have the same chance to get it as anyone else." </p><p>6. Cleon: "But Kel likes you!"<br/>Neal: "That can't be true, there's nothing to like."<br/>Me, affectionately: Oh, you dumbasses. </p><p>7. Cleon: "So, do I have your blessing?"<br/>Neal: I am NoT THAT oLD, HOW DARE– </p><p>8. Neal, aloud: *compliments Kel*<br/>Kel: *blushes*<br/>Neal, silently: <em> awww, cute little thing </em><br/>Me: how – how are you this blind.</p><p>9. Neal telling Lord Wyldon about the kidnapping isn't canon-compatible, I don't think. I can't really see events playing out as they do in canon – with how Kel is discovered in the courtyard by Tian and Gower, then Daine, and then they're tied up by the Watch for, like, three hours – if Neal informs him. But at the same time, the idea has never sat right with me that Neal left Kel alone and then didn't try to do anything else to help. Especially since we already know he'll call in authority figures if he's worried enough. </p><p>10. I was astonished rereading to realise that Daine didn't call for a healer for Kel. She's such a practical character; I would assume she'd take one look at rusted iron and say to the sparrows, "We're going to need a healer. Duke Baird, if possible" and then give them the image of what he looks like.</p><p>11. This is one of the few times in their association when Peachblossom passes up the chance to bite Neal.</p><p>12. The lightheadedness that Neal gets in Kel's room is based on something that happened to me a couple of weeks ago. It's a bit like shock, though not quite. Happened to me when I had a lot more activity than normal in one day, and nowhere near enough food or fluids. Given what I put Neal through, it seemed probable.</p><p>13. The explanation of how, because of Neal briefing Lord Wyldon in time, it goes from being a summary matter to a criminal matter is how I reconcile the apparent contradiction of Neal's early remark in Page – "the Stump says tardiness in a knight costs lives" – with it later being decided by the Lord Magistrate. </p><p>14. I'm really wondering now whether Ilane knew about Kel's crush on Neal. I'm almost certain that after today, she and Piers are forming a betting pool on them. (Baird and Wilina will probably join in when they next all see each other.) </p><p>15. Wyldon's appalled at having to say so many complimentary things at once to Queenscove. But the facts are the facts, and someone needs to put a halt to his foolishness. </p><p>16. Please, for a moment, imagine with me the look of utter confusion and embarrassment and delight, when Kel woke up and saw Neal on a mattress beside her bed – and then her horror when she sees <em> her mother and the training master </em> on the other side. (If anyone is inclined to draw it, I would be <em>very</em> interested.)</p><p>17. The reason Kel and Neal are summoned to Wyldon's office after the hurly-burly is for him to tell them that they'll be giving their accounts of the day to the Palace Watch tomorrow.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. on motivations (Squire, part one)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>From after <em>'Page'</em> through to the first chapter of <em>'Squire.'</em></p><p>Or, my take on: what Neal saw when he touched the Chamber door; those three knights who approached him before Alanna did; and what it took for him to be prepared to accept Alanna's offer, even if he thought Kel might hate him for it.</p><p>Featuring: the Queenscoves, including Jessamine, Wilina and Baird; a guest-star appearance from Anders of Mindelan; canon-typical sexism; Neal being a walking, hurting and <em> very </em> loyal disaster; and Kel being wonderful. </p><p>Chapter warning for the Chamber of the Ordeal, and a fairly graphic depiction of battle-wounds.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Let's talk about how Neal became a squire.</p><p class="p1">Let's talk about the fact that he was – despite being considered as impertinent, possessed of a poor attitude, and too old to be a squire – approached three times by various knights.</p><p class="p1">Let's talk about how he saw that. That he saw of their year, his best friend alone remained unchosen, invisible because she was The Girl.</p><p class="p1">Let's talk about the fact that he was approached a fourth time, by Alanna the Lioness. And this time, he argued against it; he apologised for it, and he accepted the offer that his best friend had dreamed of four years.</p><p class="p1">Let's talk about the fact that he thought their friendship might never be the same; that she might feel so betrayed that she might not want to still <em>be</em> his friend. And let's talk about the fact that he accepted and told her about it anyway.</p><p class="p1">Let us ask a simple question: </p><p class="p1"><em>Why?</em> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">Three days after they become squires, Neal plucks up all his courage and walks to the Chapel of the Ordeal.</p><p class="p2">His foot-steps echo as he walks. The hallway leading to the Chapel is deserted; bare, undecorated, unlike so many hallways of the Palace. No tapestries, no friezes, no carpets. Nothing muffles the sound of someone walking through it; the dark grey flag-stones reflect every sound, hard and merciless as the Chamber is supposed to be.</p><p class="p2">Nobody talks about their Ordeal, but every knight is inevitably asked about the Chamber eventually. And eventually, they must say something. Neal has grown up with many accounts; there’s a general gist, though each knight explains it differently.</p><p class="p2">‘Hard<em>’</em> is a word that crops up, in many descriptions. ‘Merciless’ is another. Sometimes, ‘ruthless<em>’</em> or ‘unforgiving.’ ‘Hammer’, ‘crush’ and ‘break’ are other words that came up quite a bit.</p><p class="p2">And every year, Tortallan nobility flings a pack of young men (and, once in a while, a woman) into it and says: <em>good luck, you’ll need it</em>.</p><p class="p2"><em>And here I am, voluntarily about to walk up to it, all the same</em>, Neal reflects, wryly. <em>How utterly crackheaded of me.</em></p><p class="p2">Neal walks into the Chapel. The Chapel is austere as the hallway, but it does contain some minimal decoration; the altar to Mithros, and the hard pews of dark wood. He bows to the altar and then turns to face the door.</p><p class="p2">It’s much like the Hallway, Neal thinks, feeling a chill run down his spine. Bare, plain; ominous, precisely because it does not <em>try</em> to be intimidating. It simply is.</p><p class="p2">His mouth dry, Neal walks forward to the door of the Chamber on trembling feet.</p><p class="p2">His vision swims as soon as he touches the door.</p>
<hr/><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">
  <em>Balor’s Needle soars overhead, its long shadow no protection against the sweltering heat of the day. He is on the ground, at the doorstep of the Needle. His hands are shaking; he's been driven to his knees.</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>In front of him are their bodies.</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Merric is no longer a boy. Baby fat has disappeared from his sheet-white cheeks; his body is long and lean, his badge rimmed in silver; his green tunic is spattered in blood. The arrow lodged in his upper chest is buried so deep that only the shaft's feathers emerge from the wound.</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Too deep, too deep for any healer; it’s already penetrated as far as his lung, and the wheezing sound from him tells Neal that his lung is already entirely punctured.</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>He can do nothing for him. He never learned how to heal arrow wounds, or how to repair a torn lung.</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>“Help me,” Merric wheezes.</em>
</p><p class="p2"><em>Neal’s heart is screaming, every fibre of his body telling him to turn back, turn back, throw his Gift into Merric, throw his own </em> <b> <em>life</em> </b> <em> in if it takes that. But cold theoretical knowledge – which he retains, even if his practical skills are weaker than ever, after gaining his shield – tells him that he can do nothing for him, and duty forbids him from wasting his Gift. </em></p><p class="p2">
  <em>Neal stands, numbness already crashing over him, tears pouring down his face with every wheezing beg from Merric, and moves to the next person.</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>No, no, no. No.</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Faleron. Seated upright, his body limp against the tower's stone. Dressed in the navy and silver of King’s Reach, his face drawn tight, as Neal leans over him. “Please,” Faleron whispers. One hand is still gripping his shield. “Neal, please.”</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Neal feels like crying, like screaming, like raging. Instead, he carefully leans in and sends a pulse of magic towards the wound.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Faleron’s upper arm has been slashed open, by a broadsword or an axe; the muscle is flayed open, the tissues separated, the artery has been cut. Terror roars in Neal’s ears, even as he calls his Gift up; he throws green fire into the wound, frantically trying to seal the artery, to mend the torn vein and muscle. It won’t budge. He pours in wave upon wave, but the artery refuses to heal. </em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Faleron’s body goes limp against him, and it takes Neal a moment to realise that his friend has passed without even a whisper.</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>He moves on, numb.</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Roald is already dead from an arrow to his throat, drenched in his own blood. Neal's heart screams with fresh rage and grief. He had played with Roald since he was five, and the prince was a toddler.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> Now his sapphire-blue eyes are empty, and Neal can only brush them closed.</span></em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Cleon, wheezing out terrible jokes through the holes in his lungs, telling Neal to give Kel his love. Neal’s Gift is shaky; as his magical reserves deplete, as he pours green fire into the breaks of Cleon’s ribs and pushes them back together, his control becomes wavier and wavier.</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>He looks up, his hands shaking, and sees Cleon’s eyes vacant. Dead. Hypoxia, training whispers coldly.</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Seaver, his dark eyes wide and terrified in his face, his face pale from blood loss, trying to hold in his guts with an ever-weakening grip; the axe had slashed his belly wide open. Neal pours green fire in, out of Gift, pouring in his own life force instead, but Seaver’s intestines are already cut in three different places. He bleeds out in under a minute.</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Neal gets up, his hands still coated in Seaver’s blood, and walks on.</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Kel looks up at him, her face white and drawn and stony, her eyes level and calm. Iron has plunged through her leg; not just her calf, but her thigh. Her great femoral vein is torn open. Neal is already kneeling, his life’s magic already wreathed around his hands, but she pushes his hands away.</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>“Save it,” she orders him. “There’s nothing you can do, anyway, and it doesn’t hurt.” The ghost of a wry smile is hovering at the corner of her mouth.</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>He tries to make a protesting noise in his throat, tries to bring his hands back to her body.</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>She shoves him away again, weakly.</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>“Just give me the mercy stroke, Neal,” she whispers. “It’s all you can do.”</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>He flinches back, as though the words are a physical blow–</em>
</p><p class="p2">His hand comes free from the cold door of the Chamber, and he stumbles back, back, until his trembling legs hit the sturdy dark wood of one of the pews. He is sobbing, deep, gut-wrenching sobs of more air and emotion than tears, as his brain replays the vision.</p><p class="p2">His friends, dead, dead, <em>needing</em> him, <em>depending</em> on him, and Neal couldn’t do a thing, because he’d pursued knighthood, not healing. Kel, her leg covered in blood, a smile that hurt all the more for containing forgiveness, Kel, who always knows what to do, ordering him to give her a <em>mercy stroke</em>.</p><p class="p2">Because he couldn’t do anything else for her.</p><p class="p2">Neal swallows down bile, and puts his head in between his knees, till his body stops wanting to convulse. Then he cries, hitching tears at first that intensify to full sobs again, till his nose is stuffy from snot and mucus, and his eyes are puffy, and his breathing is shuddering.</p><p class="p2">When the fit finally passes, he reaches behind him, gripping the side of the pew hard, hard, harder. Letting the edges of the wood go deep against his hands. He wipes his nose on his shirt-sleeve, and forces his breathing to evenness.</p><p class="p2">It didn’t happen, he tells himself.</p><p class="p2"><em>That’s not good enough</em>, his heart cries. That isn’t <em>good</em> enough. It <em>could</em> happen<em>.</em></p><p class="p2">He learned a few more tricks at the Army outpost in hill country; he has read more and more magical theory since. But healing is like sword-work, like dancing, like learning to read through Kel’s Yamani mask; it is done through hours, hours, hours of practice. Day in, day out, week in, week out.</p><p class="p2">There is a reason studying to be a healer is a full-time occupation.</p><p class="p2">And so is knighthood.</p><p class="p2">Neal forces himself to his feet, and walks through the halls. He doesn’t know where he’s going; his brain is consumed by the logic puzzle he’s made of his life.</p><p class="p2">He can’t do both. He has to do both.</p><p class="p2">He can’t do both.</p><p class="p2">He must do both.</p><p class="p2">A soft voice breaks through the circle that his thoughts run through again.</p><p class="p2">“Neal? What’s wrong?”</p><p class="p2">He is standing in the doorway of Kel’s rooms, he realises. His feet had taken him here unconsciously.</p><p class="p2">Kel is turning to face him; her sparrows are perched on her shoulders and her hands. Lalasa’s sketchbook is open on a little side-table; the maid is already half-rising from her chair, her eyes wide with alarm as she looks at Neal.</p><p class="p2">Kel looks at him, her face steady, but her eyes alert. There’s the sound of whuffling by Neal’s feet, as Jump investigates him.</p><p class="p2">Kel looks at him, her shoulders straight, her stance level and balanced, her eyes filled with worry. She is standing in the same new clothes that he is wearing, the blue hose and shirt and silver tunic of the unattached Palace squires. </p><p class="p2">And she is completely unharmed; not a bruise or cut to be seen on her.</p><p class="p2">“Neal? I think this is the longest you’ve ever been silent since I’ve met you,” she says, pushing some of her hair behind one ear. “What is it?”</p><p class="p2">Neal crosses the room to her and wraps her in a tight hug. The sparrows flutter off her shoulders with cheeps, the birds’ counterpoint to Kel’s yelp of breathless startlement.</p><p class="p2">Tiny talons dig into his shoulders, and he hears the door clicking shut behind them; Lalasa, giving them privacy. Gods <em>bless</em> that woman.</p><p class="p2">Kel is stiff in his arms for a moment, before she gives a sigh – almost inaudible, more felt in the movement of her body than heard with his ears – and her chin comes to rest in the crook of his neck.</p><p class="p2">They stand like that for a long moment, Kel baffled as she rests against him, and Neal soaking his senses in reality, as he tries to breathe even, deep breaths. Kel’s hand, strong and warm, is rubbing soothing circles into his back. Her chest is rising and falling against his. Her breathing is shallow, but there isn’t a hint of a wheeze or pain.</p><p class="p2">Slowly, Neal loosens his grip on her; slowly, her breathing evens out again, to match his own steady breathing. He rests his head against her shoulder for a moment.</p><p class="p2">“What happened?”</p><p class="p2">He shakes his head. He can’t possibly talk about it. He feels a tiny movement of her chin against his temple; silent acquiescence.</p><p class="p2">Kel’s hand comes up and combs through his hairline, and Neal sighs, feeling the tension in his body ease at the touch. He’s always been touchy, exponentially more so since the Immortals War.</p><p class="p2">Kel’s hand freezes for a moment, as he sighs. Then it returns to his temple, and brushes through his hair again, fingernails scraping against his scalp as it moves. And again, and again, till Neal almost slumps against her, the terror of the vision finally leaving his body.</p><p class="p2">Kel holds him for another moment, then gently moves up the shoulder that his head is resting on. He takes the hint and lifts his head.</p><p class="p2">“Come on,” she tells him. Her cheeks are pink. From secondhand embarrassment at his emotionality, he assumes; but her voice is soft, all the same. “It’s almost supper. I’m eating with my family tonight. Mama will be happy for you to come along as well, and we still have some <em>tsukemono</em>.”</p><p class="p2">That does sound nice, Neal admits to himself. It really does. The pickled vegetables from Yaman don’t feel much nicer than Tortallan vegetables, in terms of texture, but their flavour is infinitely better. He collects himself long enough to let go of her, and step backwards out of her personal space.</p><p class="p2">And it would be nice, to eat with Kel’s family; her parents and her older brothers especially.</p><p class="p2">Although.</p><p class="p2">“Just promise me we’ll steer clear of your sisters, as much as we can,” Neal says. Kel’s sisters are mostly polite to her, but something about their interactions sets his teeth on edge and makes Kel go quiet. There’s an air of understated condescension directed at her, a certain blithe derision whenever Kel talks about her training, as though they’re privately convinced that their own problems are real, and hers are not.</p><p class="p2">“We can sit with Anders and Inness and Mama and Papa. And Cleon,” Kel says, her tone agreeable. “You can interrogate Anders some more about the fisheries, and Mama about the Imperial Court, and Papa about politics, and Inness about swordsmanship, and…whatever else you manage to come up with on the walk between here and the house. I’m sure you’ll find something.”</p><p class="p2">Neal chuckles at that, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m sure I will,” he says.</p><p class="p2">If Kel notices that his laugh is weaker than normal, she doesn't say anything. Instead, she whistles for Jump to come to her heel, and they walk out the door together.</p><p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">The start of the Congress has one advantage: Neal actually gets to spend some extended time with his sister, for the first time in well over a year.</p><p class="p2">He hadn’t been surprised that day, in the middle of the summer of the Immortals’ War, when Jessamine had said, her voice flat: “I refuse to go to the other side of Tortall, in the middle of a war, to learn how to <em>prettily wave a fan</em>.”</p><p class="p2">“I assume you’d learn more than fan-waving,” their mother had said. Her eyebrows had curled into a thoughtful frown, as she held Jessamine’s gaze.</p><p class="p2">Jessamine had scowled. “I don’t <em>want</em> to.”</p><p class="p2">“You don’t have to,” their father had said gently.</p><p class="p2">The war had ended; Jessamine’s refusal to go to the convent had not. Neal had not been surprised by that, either.</p><p class="p2">After another year in Corus, she and Mother had gone back to Queenscove, and Mother had started teaching Jessamine more and more about the fief. When Neal came home for the summer, after his first and second years, they had practiced their swordsmanship together, and sailed and fished on the bay.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> The previous year, she and Mother had been on the southernmost coast, and they had missed each other, much to his disappointment.</span></p><p class="p2">This summer, he is at the practice courts with Kel, when Jessamine turns up one day.</p><p class="p2">Kel is busy trying to back him into a corner, and Neal is dancing out of the reach of her sword, when he sees Jessamine’s face out of the corner of his eye; he has no time for more than that, before he must dodge the swipe Kel aims at his head.</p><p class="p2">Time to go on the aggressive.</p><p class="p2">It takes another three exchanges, but the bout ends with his sword tapping against the upper reach of Kel’s thigh. Kel gives him a smile full of chagrin, and they turn to the sound of faint clapping.</p><p class="p2">Not Jessamine, Neal is relieved to see. Jessamine is simply studying them, a smile on her lips, and her eyes intrigued. Her brown hair is pulled into a horse-tail; she is dressed in a sea-green shirt and brown leather tunic, a practice sword at her hip. Beside her, actually applauding, is a young knight dressed in the blue and bronze of Tasride, looking at Neal and Kel with an approving glance. </p><p class="p2">“That was a good bout,” he says to the both of them. “Squires Kel and Neal, I assume?”</p><p class="p2">Neal and Kel bow in unison, the bow of squires to a knight, however junior.</p><p class="p2">“You have us at a disadvantage, Sir…” Kel says, as they straighten up.</p><p class="p2">“Karem,” he says, with a smile. “Karem of Tasride. Seaver is my younger brother.”</p><p class="p2">Aha. Neal had thought so.</p><p class="p2">The second son of the old Lord of Tasride had caused quite a stir when he married a Bazhir woman. Rumour had it that only the reminder of how Marinie of Tasride had been disowned by the family when she married Alan of Trebond – leading to the family having no familial connection with the woman who was now the King’s Champion – had kept the Lord from doing the same thing to his second son.</p><p class="p2">“Seaver speaks very highly of you both,” Sir Karem says. His words are addressed to both of them, but his eyes are on Neal’s. “So does Lord Wyldon. Although, in your case Squire Neal, he adds that he’s never met a more insolent person in his life.”</p><p class="p2">He cocks an eyebrow, waiting for a response.</p><p class="p2">Neal smiles back. The reason for Sir Karem to stand here and talk to them – well, to talk to Neal, really, even while appearing to talk to them both – couldn’t be more obvious if he’d announced it with an Army trumpet. And it’s at moments like these that Neal wishes he didn’t know so much about court politics.</p><p class="p2">The Tasride family is a relatively prestigious one, being in the Book of Silver. However,the cadet branch of the family carries less of their prestige, due to remaining Tortallan prejudice against the Bazhir. More prestige can transfer across to a squire from the knight-master than from squire <em>to</em> knightmaster; but depending on how well they get along, the relationship may potentially create close ties between their families.</p><p class="p2">It’s the sort of thing that makes taking the eldest Queenscove son as a squire a potentially fruitful investment, even if it seems like a long-shot. Even if the son has a reputation for being <em>difficult</em>.</p><p class="p2">Perhaps Karem hasn’t thought of it in those terms at all. And, perhaps, the Palace horses have learned to sing.</p><p class="p2">“Lord Wyldon is likely correct on that point,” Neal says cheerfully. “I’m surprised to hear that he spoke positively of me at all.”</p><p class="p2">The blithe confirmation of the Stump’s charge against Neal draws a startled look from the knight. Neal presses the advantage, continuing to speak in the careless tone that suggests a total lack of awareness to any undercurrents. “But where are my manners? I see you know Squire Keladry, but perhaps you haven’t met my younger sister, Jessamine of Queenscove.”</p><p class="p2">Jessamine shoots him a mild glare. Then she schools her face to a polite smile and extends her hand to Sir Karem for a handshake.</p><p class="p2">“Charmed, I’m sure,” Sir Karem says, even as his tone suggests that ‘confused’ would be more accurate. When Jessamine finally lets go of his hand, the knight lets it hang at his side, and tries to shake his fingers out discreetly.</p><p class="p2">Neal bites back a grin. Sir Karem’s casual inspection is effectively stymied, now. He may be an older brother to a personal friend for both Neal and Kel, but he has no such connection to Jessamine. That means he has to greet her politely.</p><p class="p2">“Are you also training for knighthood, my lady?” Sir Karem asks, after another moment, nodding at her practice sword.</p><p class="p2">Jessamine’s smile is suspiciously demure. “Oh, no,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m much too fond of sailing to ever try for my shield. Well, sailing and explosions.”</p><p class="p2">“Explosions,” Sir Karem repeats, sounding very confused. “I…see.”</p><p class="p2">Neal starts counting up in his head. By the time he’s at seventy-seven, Sir Karem is politely taking his leave. Neal waits another twenty seconds for the man to actually leave, before walking over to Jessamine.</p><p class="p2">She pushes his arm away, when he slings it around her shoulders in greeting. Her lips quirk up in a smile nonetheless.</p><p class="p2">“Thank you.”</p><p class="p2">“Thank me later,” she tells him, as she turns around. “Kel!”</p><p class="p2">Kel pauses mid-movement, the practice staff she’d been about to remove sliding back into the barrel, and she turns to face them.</p><p class="p2">Neal’s heart seems to stutter, as Kel looks at his sister, for a moment, two, three, her face unreadable.</p><p class="p2">“That’s me,” Kel says. “Can I help you with anything, my lady?”</p><p class="p2">Jessamine is already striding forward, offering her hand to Kel in a good grip. Her head only comes up to Kel's shoulder. “<em>Please</em>, no, don’t ‘my lady’ me, Kel. I’d like us to be friends. I’m Jessamine, or Jessa, to my friends. I wanted to introduce myself before that knight turned up. My brother’s talked nonstop about you ever since your first year together – I’ve been waiting to meet you for ages, it feels like.” </p><p class="p2">Kel’s returning smile is almost nervous; her cheeks pink up at the last sentence. “Oh. Thank you, Jessamine. I hope you heard good things.” She pauses. Then, with only the faintest rise of her eyebrows to tell just how much curiosity she is containing, she says: “I’ve never been much for sailing myself, but…explosions?”</p><p class="p2">Jessamine smiles. “If they took women, I’d join the navy. I’ve spent the last two years helping Mother with the fief. Especially Queenscove’s sea holdings and defences.”</p><p class="p2">“Ah.” Kel nods, instant understanding in her face. “I’d never put it together, but…south-central coast, and your fief has pearl colonies. I suppose pirates and Copper Islander raiders must be a perennial problem.”</p><p class="p2">“Not traditionally, but these days,” Jessamine says. “Raiders often found it easier to avoid Queenscove, if they possibly could, times past. We had some <em>very</em> good magical wards. But even our sea strength weakened in the Immortals’ War. Mother and I’ve been finding ways to build it back up.”</p><p class="p2">Kel smiles, and begins to trade tales with her about Mindelan, comparing notes: on life in the sea fiefs, economies and trade routes, traditional methods of discouraging pirates.</p><p class="p2">For once, Neal finds himself reluctant to talk. In the dust of the practice court, there seems to be a quiet magic at work, and to speak too much would be to break it. Instead, he<span class="Apple-converted-space"> watches </span>the growing respect and liking in his sister’s eyes, and the way the look is mirrored in Kel’s, as they talk together.</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">The Congress rolls on. Together, they watch their friends be plucked like apples ready for the harvest. Merric by Karem of Tasride; Esmond and Seaver by knights from Fenrigh and Wellam. Even Quinden gets taken by some knight from Heathercove.</p><p class="p2">Kel and Neal remain unchosen, still clothed in blue and silver.</p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">The second time Neal refuses a knight’s offer is easy.</p><p class="p2">Halfway through May, Neal is soaked in sweat, breathing hard, as he dismounts from Southwind. As he does, the knight in Rosemark colours leaning against the yard fence gives him a warm, approving compliment about his run at the quintain.</p><p class="p2">Generally speaking, this would be as nice as pie.At this <em>particular</em> moment, though, <em>Kel</em> is still a-horse Peachblossom, sending the willow ring flicking across the arena for the third consecutive time, in a display of skill that far outstrips Neal’s adequate run at the quintain.</p><p class="p2">The utter <em>wrongness</em> of the situation – and how stupidly <em>predictable</em> it is, even in that wrongness –makes Neal’s fist momentarily clench around the reins.</p><p class="p2">He breathes deeply for calm and forces a friendly smile onto his face. Then he natters to the knight about Kel, meeting all his attempts to turn the subject to Neal with details about her technique with the lance, her training with weighted practice weapons.</p><p class="p2">It takes a mere two minutes before the knight excuses himself, looking uncomfortable.</p><p class="p2"><em>Coward</em>, Neal thinks, coldly furious inside. <em>Coward.</em></p><p class="p2">(“What were you talking about so intently?” Kel asks, when she rides Peachblossom over. Her face is streaked with sweat; her eyes curious and hopeful.)</p><p class="p2">(He smiles at her, hoping that his anger isn’t showing. “I was waxing poetic about your lance-work. I could have started a ballad, if he’d let me keep going.”)</p><p class="p2">(Disappointment shadows her eyes. She recovers her mask quickly, gives him a playful grin – but it falters at the edges. “Good thing he didn’t,” she retorts. “Nobody deserves your poetry, Neal.”)</p><p class="p2">(Neal squawks in outrage, but despite his dramatics, he fails to remove the disappointment from her eyes.)</p><p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Almost every day, Kel walks down to the practice courts.</p><p class="p2">She puts Peachblossom through his paces. She works at the archery targets, or through hand-to-hand combat drills. She carries on, with a silent, steely determination that makes his heart ache.</p><p class="p2">She is the best squire in their year; and every day, she gets up at dawn, and goes to the practice courts to prove it one more time<em>.</em> Because nobody will believe it, if she doesn’t prove it.</p><p class="p2">Every time, she invites Neal, her face determinedly cheerful, the optimistic hope in her eyes sparkling a little bit less, day after day, as the month rolls on.</p><p class="p2"><em>I</em> <em>’m going down to the practice courts – do you want to join me?</em></p><p class="p2">
  <em>Come and spar with me – I could use the workout, and so could you.</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Come on, we can start with swords, if that makes you happy.</em>
</p><p class="p2">Neal pulls his bedclothes over his head, grumbling about early mornings through the fabric. Neal proclaims that nothing about the actual process of training to be a knight could ever make a sane soul <em>happy</em>. Neal accuses Kel, with his best sarcastic drawl, about secretly hating him – why else would she be so insistent about handing out bruises to him?</p><p class="p2">That last one makes her flush and protest, “I could never–” before she takes a longer look at his face, and then hits him in the face with his pillow, huffing in exasperation. “Be lazy, then,” she grumbles. A few quick strides later, she’s out the door.</p><p class="p2">Neal breathes under the pillow for a moment, rebelliously muttering to it: "It isn't laziness, this time." </p><p class="p2"><span class="Apple-converted-space">He never tells Kel that. </span>Because she is as strong as steel, as kind as summer, and <em>proud</em>. Proud enough to refuse to show weakness to her enemies; proud enough to refuse to complain, no matter the strain. Kel is proud, and if Neal ever told her that he was staying away from the practice courts so that people wouldn't look at the boy instead of The Girl, Neal wouldn’t be surprised if she died of mortification then and there.</p><p class="p2">Neal lifts the pillow off his head, flips it back under him, and punches it, helpless with fury.</p><p class="p3"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">The third time is <em>hard</em>.</p><p class="p2">On the 28<span class="s1"><sup>th</sup></span> of May, Kel and Lalasa are out investigating a potential site for Lalasa’s dress shop, one that is apparently very promising. Neal is reading in the window-nook of Kel’s room. He had agreed to mind the fort, in case a message bearing a commission should come in for Lalasa, or someone come looking for Kel.</p><p class="p2">Accordingly, he glances up when he hears the sound of a cane and foot-steps in the hallway, and his inquiry dies in his throat when he sees Anders of Mindelan hovering in the door, leaning on his cane.</p><p class="p2">“Anders,” Neal says, scrambling up. Kel’s elder brothers, with the notable exception of Conal, have forbidden him from using their titles. “Are you looking for Kel? She’s out with Lalasa at the moment, but she gave me the address of the shop they’re looking at.”</p><p class="p2">“No, actually, I’m looking for you,” Anders says, with a smile, as he limps into the room, coming to sit on the edge of Kel’s bed.</p><p class="p2">Neal swivels to face him.</p><p class="p2">Anders looks…oddly nervous, for some reason. His lips are pursed, and his thumb is stroking the head of his cane in an odd pattern; three strokes upwards, one back. He is studying Neal with a very intent look on his face, before he shakes his head and huffs a weary laugh.</p><p class="p2">“Oh, I’m making a botch of this,” he says, shaking his head. “Nothing for it. Neal, how would you feel about being my squire?”</p><p class="p2">Neal opens his mouth to respond, before he realises that he doesn’t actually know what to say.</p><p class="p2">Anders’ smile is wry. “Uncertain?”</p><p class="p2">“I’m a little surprised,” Neal says, leaning back against the wall. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d be looking to take a squire, Anders.”</p><p class="p2">“Traditionally, it’s field knights who take squires,” Anders agrees, nodding. “So the realm gets more fighters, and the knight gets four years where someone else does the camp chores that he doesn’t like.”</p><p class="p2">Neal snorts in agreement, appreciating the wry humour of it. “Exactly. But…I’m sorry to be so blunt about this, Anders. Your leg keeps you overseeing Mindelan, doesn’t it?”</p><p class="p2">“Considering how badly people fumble attempts at tact, I’ve come to <em>prefer</em> bluntness,” Anders says, dry and gracious. “And you’re right about that. It isn’t sensible to keep me on the combat duty rolls. I’m more effective as Mindelan’s overseer, responding to any problems within the fief. That frees my parents for more ambassadorial work. But…forgive me for being blunt in return, Neal.</p><p class="p2">Anders leans forward a little, his hazel eyes intent. “I’m the heir to Mindelan, and you are the heir to Queenscove. I can’t teach you as much about combat as some knights, but I can teach you a lot more about administration, justice, and all the other, not-so-glorious bits of duty that keep the realm’s wheels turning. You’d see some combat, likely, but you’d also get a lot of administrative experience. I know that wouldn’t appeal to most squires, but my sense is that you have a sense of duty every bit as strong as Kel’s.” His lips quirk up in a smile. “Even if you seem to spend a lot of energy hiding it.”</p><p class="p2">His hands settle on his thighs, and he leans back, an adjustment to his posture as small as the way he’d just leaned forward. <em>I’ve laid out the case for you; your turn to consider it.</em></p><p class="p2">Neal leans back, mirroring Anders, as his mind offers the startled observation that <em>this</em> offer doesn’t feel political, in the slightest.</p><p class="p2">He’s liked Anders ever since he met him. He’s fairly sure that it’s reciprocal. And it’s an <em>excellent</em> offer. Although it’s expected of first-born sons of noble houses to try for their shields, they don’t get much training in administration at the Palace. Nor experience in settling disputes. There is a reason many fiefs in Tortall are exploited more than they’re cared for.</p><p class="p2">Not Queenscove, though. And not Mindelan. Anders has quizzed Neal several times, in their acquaintanceship, on the customs of Queenscove, with an eye to how these work for and against their people; each time, he had compared and contrasted with Mindelan. Each time, he’d displayed an intimidatingly vast knowledge of his fief.</p><p class="p2">Anders received all the training that his father could give him. The thorough grounding in the everyday workings of the fief that Graeme and Cathal would have received from their father. The training that Neal – already occupied with his Gift, his books and his mischief – had not had. The training that his Father, unless he leaves his post as Chief Healer, doesn’t really have <em>time</em> to give him.</p><p class="p2">The cynical thought comes almost by reflex: <em>so what does Anders get out of this?</em></p><p class="p2">Neal thinks about it for a moment, and shakes his head, with a soft laugh, dismissing the thought.</p><p class="p2">Anders gains very little. And from anyone else, that would make Neal suspicious. So would the offer; because it is simple, practical and shows a stunning amount of consideration for <em>Neal.</em> For his position, his needs, and how Anders could mentor him.</p><p class="p2">From anyone else, this would be very suspicious. But this is entirely of a piece with the the Mindelans.</p><p class="p2">It’s the same empathy that Kel had, when she let Merric punch her in the arms, knowing that he was ashamed, avenging his wounded pride. The same insight as his mother; Ilane had seen exhaustion on Neal's face that he hadn't even <em>felt</em> yet. And blessedly practical compassion; she had called for a mattress, knowing that he was nowhere near ready to leave Kel’s side. </p><p class="p2">This offer is made of the same things. It could work, and work beautifully.</p><p class="p2">A near-inaudible sound – a sigh – and movement. Neal looks.</p><p class="p2">Anders is leaning forward, an absent frown on his forehead, as he leans down and rubs at his bad leg.</p><p class="p2">Neal’s stomach lurches, as the images from the Chamber door flash through his mind.Kel’s leg drenched in blood.</p><p class="p2">Merric wheezing for help.</p><p class="p2">Cleon’s jokes coming out terribly, pitifully weak.</p><p class="p2">Seaver, trying to hold his guts in with his bare hands.</p><p class="p2">Roald, Conté blue eyes vacant.</p><p class="p2">Faleron, his arm sliced open and bleeding out.</p><p class="p2">Kel, ordering him to kill her. </p><p class="p2">“Neal. Neal!” Strong hands, gently shaking him by his shoulders. “<em>Breathe</em>.”</p><p class="p2">Neal breathes. Shallow breaths, at first, then slowly deepening. <em>In</em>, two, three, through the nose. <em>Out,</em> two, three, through the mouth.</p><p class="p2"><em>In,</em> two, three, four.</p><p class="p2"><em>Out,</em> two, three, four.</p><p class="p2">His heartbeat drums in his ears, as it finally slows.His vision widens.</p><p class="p2">He’s in Kel’s room. The sparrows are cheeping outside. Anders is kneeling on the floor in front of him, in a nonthreatening posture that has to be hell on his leg. There is a look of intent concern on his face.</p><p class="p2">Neal wants to smile, make that look go away; to somehow puncture the seriousness that hangs in the room. But he can’t force his lips to make the necessary movement.</p><p class="p2">“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” Anders says, his voice quiet, and no less penetrating for that.</p><p class="p2">Neal swallows. “I might have.” He tries to lick his lips, but his mouth is bone-dry. “I saw…what I saw when I touched the Chamber door.”</p><p class="p2">“<em>Oh.”</em> Anders’ widening eyes, and his slow nod, convey a world of empathy and understanding. </p><p class="p2">There is a silence between them, after that, as Anders keeps that empathetic gaze trained on him. Neal cannot look the older man in the eye. His cheeks flush, and he looks at the silver threads of his tunic instead.</p><p class="p2">There is no demand for an account of what he saw; Anders knows, the way a healer wouldn’t, that no narrative will be forthcoming, even if he asks. There is no demand for Neal to give him a straightforward answer to his offer, though he has every right to demand that as well.</p><p class="p2">Anders shifts to his feet, grimacing as he puts the weight on his right leg. But slowly, he stands.</p><p class="p2">“If the answer is ‘no’, Neal, I won’t be offended.” His voice is easy, relaxed. </p><p class="p2">Neal swallows, summoning his courage. He gets to his feet and manages to look Anders in the eye, at last, saying: “I’m sorry. It’s a generous offer, and I’m a fool to say ‘no.’ But–”</p><p class="p2">He realises, now feeling foolish, that he has no idea how to finish that sentence. <em>But I need to be a healer?</em></p><p class="p2">Even now, despite what he saw in the vision, Neal has come too far to return to the Royal University; he’s come too far, tried too hard, poured too much blood and sweat in, to divert from his course now. There is <em>still </em>a family legacy to uphold, still a duty owing. </p><p class="p2">Anders smiles and shakes his head. “It’s alright, Neal. If you think it wouldn’t be right for you, I’d much rather you said so now, rather than three years from now.” A flash of humour in his eye. “We’d hate to waste armour.”</p><p class="p2">Neal smiles at that. “You could always melt the steel down for anchors.”</p><p class="p2">Anders rolls his eyes. “Amateur. If we’d melt the steel down for anything, it would be for harvesting tools. <em>Obviously.”</em></p><p class="p2">Neal laughs at that, as Anders limps back to the bed. As he sits, a grimace twists at his lips. Neal rises from the window seat, already calling his Gift around his fingers.</p><p class="p2">“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, as Anders opens his mouth to demur. “I might not be fully trained, but even a nine-year-old with the Gift can help with a twinge.”</p><p class="p2">Anders closes his mouth, with a disgruntled look on his face. Neal smirks, feeling as though the ground has somehow become more solid under his feet. The world can’t be <em>completely</em> mad if someone from the Mindelan family is protesting that they don’t need a healing.</p><p class="p2">He reaches into the old wound, and feeds the soothing, alleviating magic into it gently, until he feels the surrounding muscles in the thigh relax, no longer tensing to compensate for the pained part of his leg. Then he takes his hands away and stands.</p><p class="p2">Anders’ eyes are half-closed, as he leans back on the palms of his hands. “You’re good at that,” he murmurs, without opening his eyes.</p><p class="p2">Neal smiles wryly. “I could be better. But thank you.”</p><p class="p2">One hazel eye cracks open, and Neal has to force himself to hold still, under that considering look. Apparently, the ability to look as though they’re seeing right through you runs in the family<em>.</em></p><p class="p2">Then Anders smiles. “Do you think we should tell Kel?”</p><p class="p2">Neal snorts. Tell Kel that her best friend has refused an offer from her favourite brother to be his squire?</p><p class="p2">“Anders, if you want to get me killed, at least pick a quick death. Poison, or something.”</p><p class="p2">“Alright, then,” Anders agrees cheerfully, getting to his feet. “I won’t tell her. And she probably won’t hear about it. I’d mentioned the idea to Mama and Papa, but no-one else.”</p><p class="p2">“Thank the Goddess for small mercies,” Neal says, throwing his hand across his forehead, miming a swoon of relief. </p><p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p2">Let’s talk about Tortallan parents, especially those of noble ranks. If you’re lucky enough to have good ones, they don’t disappear when you happen to move to a room in a different wing in the Palace.</p><p class="p2">This is especially true if you have a father who, during epidemics, sleeps in his office as many nights as he sleeps in his home; and if your mother accepts this state of affairs as entirely normal. The Queenscove townhouse is less than ten minutes away from the Palace by horseback for some very good reasons.</p><p class="p2">To a much, much greater extent than most noble families – who, at best, tend to pay lip service to the idea – Baird and Wilina believe in letting their children make their own choices and making their own mistakes.</p><p class="p2">Baird argued with Neal over his decision to train as a knight, but he had never moved to prevent him from doing so. When Neal was a page and had too much punishment work to go into the city, his mother had sighed at not seeing him. She had also not made a single move to try and get him out of the trouble he’d landed himself in.</p><p class="p2">Baird and Wilina believe in letting their children live their own lives. This does not equate to absence.</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Neal is in his room, and sitting cross-legged on his desk, as he pores over another book.</p><p class="p2">Squires are allowed to personalise their rooms more than pages. When he moved in, his first action had been to install a powerful mage-globe in the corner opposite the door and set it to hang directly over his desk.</p><p class="p2">The diagrams in this book – a treatise on principles of the interaction between magical and plant-based medicines in treatment – are fascinating, but faint. It requires the full force of the bright light for Neal to be able to make the lines out.</p><p class="p2">Therefore, sitting on his desk is a far better solution, as it is closer to the light. He had almost set his hair on fire before correctly performing the childhood spell that would allow him to reverse his shadow’s direction. But he <em>had</em> gotten there in the end.</p><p class="p2">Neal is examining the diagram on a treatment of hypovolemic shock when three brisk knocks sound against the door.</p><p class="p2">“Can I come in, Neal?”</p><p class="p2">Neal touches a thumb to the corner of the page, murmuring a spell under his breath. A shimmering tendril of magic shapes itself into a string and settles across the margin of the book.</p><p class="p2">“<em>Can</em> you, Mother?” he returns, gently closing the book.</p><p class="p2">The door swings open, with a soft snort of amusement.</p><p class="p2">His mother stands in the doorway for a moment, looking at him, still dressed in her red mage robe. Her hair, greying at her temples, but otherwise long and brown was neatly braided at some point today, but it has started to come loose at her scalp, from running her fingers through it.</p><p class="p2">Neal gets up and kisses her cheek. Part of his brain notes with startlement that he has to lean down several inches to do so now. “To what do I owe the honour?”</p><p class="p2">Wilina’s smile is wry amusement. “I was in the Palace already. Council business.” She gestures to his bed. “Do you mind, Neal?”</p><p class="p2">“No, of course not. Council business, you say?”</p><p class="p2">“Mm. Thank the gods I’m not the Head anymore. The voting is more than enough to keep anyone sane busy.”</p><p class="p2">“Who <em>is</em> the current head, actually? It changed this past year, didn’t it?”</p><p class="p2">Wilina grins, sharp and wicked. “Eleni of Olau.”</p><p class="p2">Neal laughs. “Well, nothing ought to take the Council by surprise with <em>her</em> in charge. The conservatives are livid?”</p><p class="p2">“We ought to be very well-informed, yes. And no; the conservatives seem to be resigned to the Council of Mages being irredeemably progressive, and that they’d best be outraged to the point of apoplexy about other matters,” his mother says cheerfully. “But since you mention surprise – I heard you were approached by Anders of Mindelan today.”</p><p class="p2">“Oh? How did you hear that?” The Palace gossip network works quickly in regard to most things, but this is hardly the kind of news that whips around the Palace in a day. And the Congress is the thing primarily occupying the rumour mill, most days.</p><p class="p2">Wilina grins again. “I’m not telling you that.”</p><p class="p2">“Unfair,” Neal complains, flapping a hand at her. “There you are, Master and member of the Council of Mages, and you <em>refuse</em> to pass on your knowledge to following generations. How <em>do</em> you sleep at night?”</p><p class="p2">“All’s fair in love and parenting,” his mother says, her tone still sanguine. “I also heard that you turned him down.”</p><p class="p2">Neal sighs. The problem with parents, he thinks, is that they might be just as stubborn as you, especially if you learned it from them.</p><p class="p2">“I did,” he admits.</p><p class="p2">“Why?” Wilina tugs at her braid, her eyes curious. “From everything you’ve said about your visits to the Mindelan house – and everything Ilane has said – I thought you got along quite well with Kel’s brothers. Aside from Conal, of course. I hear no-one except his twin can get along with him, though.”</p><p class="p2">His frustration from the afternoon begins to spill over. “I get along very well with Anders, as a knight-master he’d be sunshine and daisies, I’d learn a great deal, but I <em>can’t</em> say yes, Mother.”</p><p class="p2">Her eyes are measuring as she looks at him, her head cocking to the side. “Is this about the fact that Kel hasn’t been chosen as a squire yet? Jessamine’s mentioned that you’ve not been on the practice courts with her, recently.”</p><p class="p2">“No. Yes. Maybe, a bit.” Neal tugs at his hair. “It’s why I’ve been avoiding the practice courts, yes. It’s – Goddess above, Mother. She’s the <em>best</em> of us with an axe, a longbow, a staff, the <em>only</em> area where I can best her is with a sword – you should <em>see</em> her with a lance! And then, the other week, when we’re both tilting? Some ninny from Rosemark comes up and compliments me on hitting the quintain’s target. While Kel is still practicing with the willow ring that only <em>Lord Wyldon</em> can nail.”</p><p class="p2">She grimaces. “People can say that nothing’s there, even if you’re smacking them in the face with a haddock, if they want to believe nothing’s there.”</p><p class="p2">Neal throws up his hands in silent exasperation, nodding at her. “Yes. Yes, exactly.”</p><p class="p2">“I’m not entirely sure whether to be proud of you or frustrated with you,” Wilina says, smiling even as she shakes her head. “I suppose you’ve always had a tendency for self-sacrifice.”</p><p class="p2">“I don’t think avoiding an idiot knightmaster is that sacrificial,” Neal says tartly.</p><p class="p2">Wilina does not respond to this observation. “Is that why you turned Anders down, too? Because Kel hasn’t been chosen by a knight-master yet?”</p><p class="p2">Not even <em>approached, </em>actually, but Kel would kill Neal if he said as much, even to his mother – and Wilina probably knows already.</p><p class="p2">It bears repeating: Neal has always been a terrible liar. He’s gotten better at saying one thing while thinking another to survive court, which is a kind of deception. He’s certainly gotten much better at disguising his emotions and his true feelings, which is another kind of deception again. Call it a defence mechanism; give every impression that you don’t care to people, and perhaps they will believe you.</p><p class="p2">Despite that, he doesn’t really have the willpower you need for outright brazen lying. For looking someone in the eyes and trying to <em>make</em> them believe the opposite of the truth.</p><p class="p2">This is especially true of his parents.</p><p class="p2">Neal shakes his head. The movement is small, almost minuscule, but he knows his mother’s eyes have caught it.</p><p class="p2">“I didn’t think it was either,” Wilina says. “Do you want to tell me?”</p><p class="p2">Neal swallows.</p><p class="p2">There’s no <em>rule</em> he’s ever been able to find and track down, about why the knights don’t talk about their Ordeal. They just…don’t. In strict defiance of the doctrine preached by almost every healer who works with wounded veterans, abused women, and people who’ve generally been through some level of hell, Tortallan knights do not breathe a word about what they see in the Chamber. Whatever they see in there, no matter how much it scars them, they take to their grave.</p><p class="p2">Touching the door itself is not an Ordeal, of course. But somehow, he can’t try and find the will to describe that awful, nightmare-spawning vision.</p><p class="p2">He bites his lip, thinking, and then says after a while: “Do you remember that summer of my second year? When we went to the hill country?”</p><p class="p2">Wilina’s scowl, when she chooses to use it, is magnificent. “When that district commander – who would have served the realm much better if he was turned into a piece of wood and then used as a table leg – was taking bribes from bandits? And your hunting party ran into their camp?”</p><p class="p2">“That one,” Neal says, smiling at her temper. Neal loves his father, but the older he gets, the more he thinks he takes after his mother. “Remember I told you Merric was wounded? Shot with an arrow?”</p><p class="p2">“You treated him. Stopped the bleeding and the pain, until help could arrive, and until you all got to the Army outpost.” There’s a slightly puzzled look in her eyes, as though she’s not quite sure where this is coming from.</p><p class="p2">Neal nods, and can’t stop himself from looking over at the book. “I…I keep thinking about that moment, Mama,” he says. The childish nickname comes easily to his lips in the moment, in a way that it hasn’t since he was thirteen. “If that arrow had been a bit deeper, or a bit higher, I wouldn’t have known what to do.”</p><p class="p2">The puzzlement in Wilina’s eyes vanishes. “Because your training never took you further.”</p><p class="p2">Around the lump in his throat, he nods.</p><p class="p2">She takes a deep, measured breath, and lets it out slowly. “Well. I can see why that has you uneasy. It’s one thing to know you could never have done anything; another to know that you could have done more, if you’d made a different choice.” She looks at him shrewdly. “You don’t want to–”</p><p class="p2">He shakes his head. “Back to the University, after coming so far? I still want to do Queenscove’s duty.”</p><p class="p2">“You mean, you still want to fulfil Graeme’s duty, and Cathal’s.” Neal almost hisses at the bluntness, and Wilina shrugs. “Well, you do, don’t you?”</p><p class="p2">“Not exactly.”</p><p class="p2">When he says nothing more than that, his mother raises her eyebrows at him, a nonverbal refusal to let him off the hook easily. She waits, patiently silent.</p><p class="p2">Neal feels himself crack. The frustration of it makes him surge to his feet, sharpens his voice. “It’s not about their duty, Mama. They <em>did</em> their duty. They–” four years later or no, his voice still breaks on the sentence. “They did their duty, to the death. They’ve gone. We haven’t – <em>I</em> haven’t. So – so what about <em>my</em> duty to them?”</p><p class="p2">His mother mutters something under her breath in Old Thak, too soft for him to follow, as she tugs at her braid. Then she takes another deep breath.</p><p class="p2">Neal waits. His arms are crossed across his chest, which feels hot and constricted, as though he’s struggling against binding ropes.</p><p class="p2">“<em>Why?</em>” Wilina asks, eventually. Her voice is almost pained, and Neal flinches from the sound of it in her voice. “Neal, what did you ever owe your brothers? What did they owe you? Vendettas of pranks aside - family doesn’t <em>owe</em> each other.”</p><p class="p2">“Maybe not,” Neal admits, his hands dropping to his sides. “But…don’t the survivors owe a duty to the dead? To live for their sake?”</p><p class="p2">His mother’s head sinks into her hands, and her shoulders hunch forward.</p><p class="p2">Guilt twists uncomfortably in his stomach. He lost his brothers – but <em>she</em> lost her sons.</p><p class="p2">After a long, long moment, his mother raises her head. There are tears on her face, but her eyes are fierce, as she pins him with her gaze. </p><p class="p2">“You’re right. The living <em>do</em> owe a duty to the dead. To live, and to cherish life all the more fiercely for it. To live, and not simply exist. So Neal, answer me honestly. Are you determined to live <em>your</em> life, for Cathal and Graeme’s sakes – or are you thinking to live their lives?”</p><p class="p2">“I don’t <em>know</em> what my life is going to be!” He throws up his hands in exasperation. “I know I’m not Graeme, Mama. I can never be as dutiful as he was, and I’ll never emulate his patience. I know I’m not Cathal; I can never have his kindness. I know I’m not <em>them</em>, Mama.” His voice has risen to a shout, he realises. He looks at the floor, shame twisting in his guts. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. But I’ve <em>chosen</em> this, Mama. I’ve chosen this training, this path. And I really, truly don’t regret it.” He swallows. “But I need to use the gifts I’ve been given, too. So…I just…have to be a healer, too, as well as a knight. <em>Somehow</em>.”</p><p class="p2">Silence hangs in the room for a few moments, as Neal continues to stare at the rug below his feet. The silence breaks with rustle of fabric, and then Neal is being pulled into his mother’s arms.</p><p class="p2">“I’ll give you this, son. You don't think small,” Wilina says, as she finger-combs his hair.Her tone is wry and amused and sardonic, all at once, and her movement is gentle.</p><p class="p2">He leans into it. It feels strange, to be leaning down into the hug like this; but it is also achingly familiar, and slowly, he feels his body relaxing into the touch. </p><p class="p2">“You’re not angry?” he asks, after another moment.</p><p class="p2">“Exasperated, to be sure. And yet, I don’t think I could be more proud of you, either.” She shakes her head ruefully as she lets him go. “Contrarian that you are.” She hesitates for a moment. “Neal, I hope you don’t mind, but I think I should speak to your father about this, too. He knows what it’s like, to need to do both. And he’s come to accept that you <em>are </em>set on knighthood.”</p><p class="p2">Neal bites his lip, but nods, after a moment. It’s true. Baird had stopped asking him, after his first year, about whether he didn’t want to return to the University.</p><p class="p2">“Alright.”</p><p class="p2">She squeezes his shoulder. “Don’t fret, Neal. We’ll think of something.”</p><p class="p2">“Aren’t I getting to the age where <em>I</em> should be the one doing that?”</p><p class="p2">His mother chuckles. “Your father and I reserve the right to be interfering meddlers, though we only exercise that right occasionally.” She stretches, and some of the bones in her back pop. “Now, if you don’t have any plans for the next hour or so – I have some new spells I’ve been working on. I’d love a second pair of eyes to go over them.”</p><p class="p2">Neal grins, accepting the change of subject. Of the things he and his mother share, a love of spell-craft has always been among them. “Show me.”</p><p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Kel has finally stopped inviting him down to the practice courts in the mornings. Neal’s primary feeling about this is <em>relief</em>: he no longer needs to refuse his best friend’s offers to spend time with him.</p><p class="p2">But the night after his conversation with his mother, after supper, he changes into his fighting clothes and heads down to the indoor practice courts.</p><p class="p2">Neal has always been more awake at night than in the mornings.</p><p class="p2">He builds the routine back up incrementally. Stretches and hand-to-hand solo drills; sword drill, on foot and on Southwind’s back. Then work at the quintain, on the twin yet distinct principles of: <em>start with the easy part, if you need to start </em>and <em>put off the hard bit for as long as possible</em>.</p><p class="p2">He is embarrassed, that first night, when he needs to stop after two runs at the quintain; breathing hard and the lance trembling in his hand, as he leans the butt of it against the ground.</p><p class="p2">He is surprised, when he unsheathes his sword, the metal whispering, the weight of the hilt resting easily in his hand, and the thought appears: <em>I missed this.</em></p><p class="p2">Kel continues to work on the practice courts in the morning, exercising her monster of a horse, working at archery, with the lance, at hand-to-hand. Jessamine visits her twice more, and they spar.Each time, they come up to Neal’s room afterwards, and analyse their bouts, while needling him.</p><p class="p2">Neal provides an array of responses to the needling – wounded indignation, haughty dignity – without once removing his eyes from the pages of the books below him, on his bed. There is a stack of them to work through, and not much time to do it in. Kel and Jessamine’s voices make for some lovely background music, though.</p><p class="p2">Lalasa finally settles on a site for her shop: a bright, airy place on the edge of the Lower City. Neal is sitting in the window-seat of Kel’s room, chatting with her and her sparrows, when Lalasa comes in with the news. They both spring to her feet with cries of delight when Lalasa tells them the news; when Neal congratulates her, Lalasa smiles back.</p><p class="p2">Kel asks if Lalasa would take them to see the shop, and Neal adds spirited agreement. Lalasa blushes at their enthusiasm, but does not demur. They walk down Palace Way together, Lalasa with one arm linked with Kel’s left, and Neal with his left arm around Kel’s shoulder.</p><p class="p2"><em>How far we’ve come,</em> Neal thinks, and for all the bittersweet poignancy it holds, the thought is a good one. </p><p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">The 7<span class="s1"><sup>th</sup></span> of June is not entirely halfway over, and it is already shaping up to be quite warm. Neal has finally finished another item on his list – a very, very dense treatise about the proper brewing of several magic-infused teas – and is reaching for the next book, when there is a brisk rap at the door.</p><p class="p2">A moment later, Baird pokes his head in the door and then lets himself in completely.</p><p class="p2">“You have a meeting today,” he tells his son. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips; a look in his eyes that Neal recognises from earliest childhood days. His old man is trying very hard to not let something slip.</p><p class="p2">That mystery alone makes Neal decide to not take umbrage at the fact that what he said was in no way a question. </p><p class="p2">“Do I?”</p><p class="p2">Well, not <em>much</em> umbrage.</p><p class="p2">Neal shifts from a supine position to sitting upright on his bed, setting the new book over his knee as he does. It’s another volume about healing; the history and development of magical battlefield medicine, this time.</p><p class="p2">Baird’s smile is wry. “Unless you decide to flee for the desert, the northern mountains, or hill country, that is. But if you choose to stay here, I’ll be back again in a few hours. I have a prospective knight-master I’d like you to see. I think the place would suit you.”</p><p class="p2">Neal eyes his father. “Mother <em>did</em> talk to you.”</p><p class="p2">“Parents do that sometimes, you know,” Baird says, deliberately mild.</p><p class="p2">Neal scowls at him. “This is a conspiracy.”</p><p class="p2">His father smiles at that; a small curve of his lips, but his eyes are dancing. “To repeat the sentiment: it’s called parenting, my dear son.” He catches the balled-up socks that Neal aims at his body with a laugh, and then throws it back; Neal ducks the sock, as Baird walks forward and comes to sit on his bed.</p><p class="p2">“I strongly recommend that you do <em>not</em> adopt that tactic in the meeting,” he says dryly. Then Baird’s eyes soften, even as he crosses his arms. “I know I wasn’t supportive of your page training, Neal, especially in the beginning. Even though I don’t regret it for myself, seeing Graeme and Cathal go through it and into the Chamber – those were the two most frightening nights of my life.”</p><p class="p2">Neal’s stomach is lurching. Father doesn't talk about Graeme and Cathal often. Not at all.</p><p class="p2">“Father–” he begins, not sure how to finish the sentence.</p><p class="p2">Baird holds up a hand for silence. “I thought I wouldn’t be able to live with myself, if something happened to them in the Chamber. Then afterwards, I thought I wouldn’t be able to live, if something happened to them in the field. Then they both passed, and I had to anyway. <em>We</em> had to.” His eyes are rueful as he studies Neal, and he shakes his head. “And then you said you wanted to train too, and I thought I had to be having a symptomless heart attack, then and there.”</p><p class="p2">Neal can’t keep looking at his father. He picks at the bed-clothes instead. His parents have <em>never</em> been the same, since losing his brothers. Neal feels guilty for adding to that burden, but not guilty enough to change his course.</p><p class="p2">His father is still speaking. “I wanted you to be safe, Neal. It’s the wish no parent can resist making, and it’s the wish they will never, ever get. I still wish for it, but I’ve healed enough to recognise the reality, now.” His hands come up under Neal’s chin, forcing him to meet his gaze.</p><p class="p2">Neal blinks. His father’s eyes are wet, filled with something deep and fierce under the layer of unshed tears.</p><p class="p2">“I can’t keep you safe,” Baird repeats. “The only thing I can do is help prepare you, and help you become the man you’ll need to be.”</p><p class="p2">Neal swallows. His cheeks are hot from emotion, and his eyes are stinging with tears, too.</p><p class="p2">“Do you think– do you think Graeme and Cathal would have been proud?”</p><p class="p2">The question comes out suddenly, impulsively off his tongue. It has boiled up a hundred, a thousand times in the back of his mind, in his heart in idle moments, when he’s back at the fief and can’t stop himself from thinking about them. It is the question he has always longed to ask his father, and hated that he never could, without giving him another opening to their argument.</p><p class="p2">Baird laughs, short and broken. “Oh, <em>son</em>.” Fast as Peachblossom, he lunges across the bed and pulls Neal into his arms, as though his son is not now his height, and a bit broader across the shoulders. “They were <em>always</em> proud of you.”</p><p class="p2">Neal buries his head in the crook of Baird’s neck, breathing in the comforting smell of herbs, letting the embrace hide the way the tears are flowing. His father rubs his back, the way he did when Neal was small enough to be picked up, and Neal’s hair becomes damp with his tears.</p><p class="p2">After a few silent minutes, their tears run dry. Slowly, giving Neal plenty of time to adjust to the loss of contact, Baird’s arms loosen around him.</p><p class="p2">Neal only needs to clear his throat once, as he sits up. </p><p class="p2">“The knight’ll be by in early afternoon, you said?” Neal asks.</p><p class="p2">“No, I’ll come and collect you in early afternoon, and take you to meet the knight.”</p><p class="p2">Neal has a feeling that his raised eyebrows aren’t half so dignified with his nose blocked with snot from crying. He raises them anyway. “That’s highly unusual.”</p><p class="p2">“What, and you aren’t?” his father teases, reaching out to tweak Neal’s nose with the same lightning speed. In what Neal considers to be terribly unfair, he is out of range of retaliation a moment later. “Remember, early afternoon.”</p><p class="p2">“Ugh, keep your secrets, then,” Neal shoots back, unable to stop himself from smiling back at his father.</p><p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Baird comes to collect him for the meeting, a few moments after the second afternoon bell rings through the Palace. At his knock, Neal tugs the creases out of his tunic and checks his hair in the mirror for a moment, before leaving the room.</p><p class="p2">Ordinarily, he wouldn’t care about his appearance, even if a prospective knight-master wanted to meet him. But if his father is personally collecting him and taking him to the meeting, then family and fief honour is at stake, too. And although Neal has merrily torn his own reputation into shreds and would do it again in aheartbeat, he would walk over broken glass before he does the same to his family’s, or his fief’s.</p><p class="p2">“I noticed you were reading Hannalof earlier,” Baird says softly, as they walk. “How are you finding it?”</p><p class="p2">“Drier than I’d hoped,” Neal says, pulling a face wryly. “Very good at explaining the historical development, but the ratio of battlefield analysis to specifics about actual innovations in healing practice on those battlefields is two-to-one at best.”</p><p class="p2">His father makes a commiserating noise. They enter a stairwell and begin to climb. “About what I remembered. My sympathies.” He casts Neal a considering look. “Do you want my old textbooks?”</p><p class="p2">Neal’s eyes widen, and he almost misses his footing on the step.</p><p class="p2">“Aren’t they on loan to your apprentice?” he demands.</p><p class="p2">The question is purely rhetorical. Baird’s old Carthaki texts on anatomy, spell-workings, the shaping of power for healing, and the interactions of magic and human biochemistry, are perpetually on loan to one apprentice or another.</p><p class="p2">Baird waves a hand. “I think Varya is almost done with them. Besides, I am able to want my own books back.”</p><p class="p2">Neal swallows. The offer is beyond generous. “Yes, please, Father. As soon as Varya’s gotten what she needs, I would love to borrow your books.”</p><p class="p2">Even if Neal won’t be able to keep up with most of them yet, aside from the books on anatomy and biochemistry, they’ll be a treasure beyond price for his quest to learn all the healing he can.</p><p class="p2">“Actually, I’d have you keep them.” This time, Neal <em>does</em> trip. His father catches him before he can hit the flag-stones, chuckling as he does. “Are you so surprised?”</p><p class="p2">They turn into another hallway. Odd. They’re heading into the royal wing of the Palace, of all places. Neal hasn’t been here in <em>years</em>. Neal replies with his point anyway: “Yes! They’ve always been <em>your</em> books.”</p><p class="p2">The books that Neal had looked at as a child, sitting in his father’s lap, as Baird walked an apprentice through one point or another. Father had allowed his tiny fingers to trace over the diagrams; had tried to find ways to explain the effects of trauma to the central nervous system to a four-year-old, while whichever apprentice was looking on today tried to suppress their laughter.</p><p class="p2">“I always intended for you to have them, someday,” his father says, and now, there’s a note of surprise in <em>his</em> voice. “You were the only one who had the gift for healing.”</p><p class="p2">Neal swallows. It’s true. Cathal’s only attempt at healing him as a child had been <em>horrendously</em> bad. But this feels uncomfortably like another legacy being given to him; underneath Baird's words, Neal hears<em> 'I won't need them forever, after all</em>.'</p><p class="p2">Neal hunts for an intelligent response, and comes up with: "Oh."</p><p class="p2">His father smiles and comes to stop outside a door. The Ownsman on duty nods to both of them; Baird smiles and knocks on the door.</p><p class="p2">“Come in,” says a familiar voice, and Neal’s eyes widen.</p><p class="p2">His father shoves him through the door, and closes it behind him before he can express the startlement.</p><p class="p2">It’s probably the correct tactical decision, Neal will think later on. Much, much later on.</p><p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">Neal recovers his balance as he steps into the room. Swiftly, he scans it.</p><p class="p2">The King’s private study, from the large desk at one end of the room, and the book-cases behind it.</p><p class="p2">An informal meeting, judging by the fact that said monarch is not seated at the desk, but is rather sitting in an arm-chair beside the fire.</p><p class="p2">Very informal. No Zahir present. And there are three smaller, but relatively comfortable chairs, arranged to create a semi-circle where the occupants can face each other.</p><p class="p2">The King is already on his feet, his wide smile flowing across his face. “Ah, Baird, Squire Neal! Come, sit.”</p><p class="p2">So. <em>Baird</em> and <em>Squire Neal</em>, not <em>your Grace</em> and <em>Squire Nealan. </em>Is this a meeting between family friends, then?</p><p class="p2">The Conté clan is still small, for a royal dynasty, which puts Neal’s family close to the line of succession. This, a tradition of Queenscove loyalism, and Baird and Wilina’s personal service to King Jonathan, is how Neal numbered Roald and Kalasin among his childhood playmates, and he called the King “Uncle Jon” in private until he was about twelve.</p><p class="p2">The King is already moving to a sideboard, with an inquiry of “Twilsey?” that only just cuts through Neal’s thoughts.</p><p class="p2">“Yes, please,” Neal’s father says. He raises an eyebrow at Neal pointedly, and Neal swallows. Right. Paying attention to the here and now; that would be constructive.</p><p class="p2">Baird continues: “I’ve been seeing to patients all morning. I could use the drink.”</p><p class="p2">“About what I thought,” the king returns cheerfully. He hands each of them a glass of twilsey a moment later, and settles into his chair. “And you, Neal? Have you had a strenuous morning?”</p><p class="p2">No honorific from his father to the King, so Neal is probably safe in informal register. Still, it’d be sensible to retain the honorific, unless invited to drop it. “Not unless you count making my way through a very dryly-worded book about medical history, your majesty.”</p><p class="p2">The King chuckles. “Mentally, if perhaps not physically, strenuous.” He’s lifting his glass in a toast. “Your health, my guests.”</p><p class="p2">Neal lifts his glass, chorusing with his father: “And to yours, majesty.”</p><p class="p2">They drink silently for a moment until the King speaks again. “Medical history. It seems an interesting choice of leisure reading.”</p><p class="p2">Neal keeps his expression level through sheer will, as his court-trained ears prick up at the comment. “‘Leisure’ is perhaps not the right word. ‘Voluntary study’ might be it.”</p><p class="p2">The King opens his mouth to reply to that, only to be cut off by the sound of the door opening, and boots entering the room. Neal looks up, and his jaw drops.</p><p class="p2">“Sorry I’m late, Jon.” The newcomer is dressed in somewhat dusty, nondescript garments, with no fief colours or sign or device. However, the blazing copper hair and violet eyes really give it away. “Had to take the long way round to the wing. I was avoiding Runnerspring, Genlith and Blue Harbour.”</p><p class="p2">“If that’s the reason you’re late, then my thanks, and Gary’s,” the King replies wryly.</p><p class="p2">Sir Alanna – Lioness of Tortall, King’s Champion, Lady of Pirate’s Swoop, heir to Barony Olau – cheerfully sketches a bow to the King, before she drops into the remaining available chair. She spares a smile for Baird and a nod to Neal, as she settles into it. The chair happens to be in between the King and Neal’s father.</p><p class="p2">Neal looks between the three adults.</p><p class="p2">The King, who is a knight by Ordeal, but who already has a squire.</p><p class="p2">His father, whose shield of knighthood has been in the family armoury since before Neal was born. Besides which, under Lord Wyldon’s reforms, fathers taking their sons as squires has gone distinctly out of vogue.</p><p class="p2">Sir Alanna, the Lioness, the realm’s sole lady knight, whose shield is definitely <em>not</em> in her family armoury, wherever it happens to be. Who does <em>not</em> have a squire.</p><p class="p2">“Oh, <em>no</em>. No, no, absolutely not,” Neal says, as the pieces click together.</p><p class="p2">The King coughs, his left hand coming up to hover over his mouth, and his right hovering out to the side.</p><p class="p2">Sir Alanna sighs and drops a gold noble into the King’s waiting hand.</p><p class="p2">“Hear us out,” Baird says, ignoring the byplay between monarch and Champion.</p><p class="p2">Neal grits his teeth. As if there is any possible argument that could justify him accepting this. But he manages to hold his temper and inclines his head in acquiescence, ever so slightly.</p><p class="p2">The King leans forward, holding Neal’s gaze with his own. “Squire, let’s consider something. Since the conclusion of the Immortals’ War, Tortall has had three very dangerous and testy neighbours to tread around.”</p><p class="p2">The King extends his index finger. “Carthak, with whom we have been able to make alliance by marriage.” Another finger. “The Copper Isles.” Another finger. “Last of all, Scanra. With the last two, we have very tenuous diplomatic relations. We can, and <em>do,</em> consider there to be a high risk of future conflict, possibly open war. In strategic terms, the realm cannot allow <em>any</em> of our assets to be under-used. And the greatest asset of Tortall will always be her people.”</p><p class="p2">Neal opens his mouth, seeing an opening there.</p><p class="p2">The King carries on, inexorable. “As such, the matter of squires’ educations is actually quite important. This is particularly true when it comes to you. You’re a mage, with a Gift for healing, spell-craft, and illusions. You are the heir to one of the most wealthy and powerful fiefs in the realm. You’re also a very promising swordsman. I understand that in your final year of training, Lord Wyldon took to sparring with you personally, in order to keep challenging you. So – where <em>should</em> such a squire best be placed, in order to make use of all his talents?”</p><p class="p2">The King’s logic is unimpeachable, and unassailable in its own right.</p><p class="p2">That fact contributes to Neal’s voice being a bit too sharp for politeness’ demands. “Anywhere he wouldn't be betraying his best friend, sire, I assume.” Neal looks at the Lioness. Her mouth is tight with displeasure, and who is drumming her fingers on her sword-belt. “My lady, why aren’t you talking to <em>Kel?" </em></p><p class="p2">The Lioness shakes her head, her lip curling in helpless fury. “Believe me, if I could take Keladry, I would. But if I mentored her, I’d <em>sabotage</em> her. Not in training, but politically. You know how it is, Neal.”</p><p class="p2">Neal does know. “But–”</p><p class="p2">“No,” the King says. “Neal, your loyalty to your friend does you credit, and I understand your hesitation. But after seventeen years of unstinting service to the Crown as my Champion, <em>Sir Alanna</em> still has to deal with people questioning whether she won her shield on her own merits. What do you think they would say about Squire Keladry, if Sir Alanna is her knight-master?”</p><p class="p2">Sir Alanna jumps in, her eyes narrowed in fury. “At best, that I magicked her to succeed, Neal. <em>At best.</em> Gods know I wish circumstances were different, but they aren’t.” She closes her eyes, simply breathing in and out, for a few moments. Then she speaks again. “You, on the other hand, I can teach. And you <em>need</em> teaching, squire. You’ve far too much of the Gift to be left untrained.”</p><p class="p2">Neal’s jaw clenches. “I’m sure I’ll muddle through somehow, my lady.”</p><p class="p2">He won’t, and he knows it. Ignoring the Gift always, <em>always</em> has consequences; the more powerful the Gift, the more devastating those consequences.The flashiest Gifts demonstrate the principle most blatantly: ignored fire magic leads to accidental arson, ignored weather magic leads to sudden rainstorms which coincide with emotional fury.</p><p class="p2">The consequences of ignoring healing magic are far more insidious. There is not much scholarship on it, partly because it's rare for even people wary of mages to not accept the healing Gift, and partly because most healers can no more resist the urge to heal than water can run uphill.<br/>
<br/>
But there is some anecdotal evidence on what happens when a healing Gift is ignored, and<span class="Apple-converted-space"> t</span>hat evidence describes depression. Irritableness. Bouts of withdrawal and inexplicable melancholia. Feeling detached from others, even those close to one’s self; a sense of meaninglessness and purposelessness, no matter how busy or productive that person’s life is otherwise. Emissions of uncontrollable waves of magic, with unpredictable consequences.</p><p class="p2">Father’s soft voice stops Neal from going any further down the list of symptoms. “Neal. Keladry is being looked after. You don’t need to feel guilty.”</p><p class="p2">“What could possibly make me <em>not</em> feel guilty about this?” Neal exclaims.</p><p class="p2">“Possibly, the fact that your friend is getting a superb offer, imminently,” says the King. His eyes are firm and unmoving, as he holds Neal’s gaze. “This is no whim on our parts, Squire Nealan. Of your year’s candidates, you and Squire Keladry contain the greatest potential. There has been <em>much</em> thought given to how that potential might be brought out.”</p><p class="p2">The look in the king’s eyes gives no room for doubting his word, and Neal slumps back into his chair, even as his mind wonders what offer in the world that could possibly make up for not riding with the Lioness. Not riding with the one person in the world who might understand what Kel is going through, and what position she is in.</p><p class="p2">He looks at Sir Alanna, whose lack of a poker face is court legend. If anyone will give the catch away in this game, it’s her.</p><p class="p2">“Do <em>you</em> agree that she’s getting an equally good offer, Sir?” he asks her.</p><p class="p2">The Lioness scowls before she sighs and nods. “Hand to the Goddess – and may She save me for saying this, because I hate it – I actually <em>do</em>.” She looks up, her purple eyes level, even if a sour amusement is also lurking in them, as she takes another deep breath. “From everything I’ve heard about Keladry over the past four years, she’s going to shape up to be a very different sort of fighter and lady knight to me. Even if the politics of it <em>were</em> different, there’d be a limit to how much I could help her effectively.</p><p class="p2">She points at him imperiously. “You, on the other hand, are a different story. You are a swordsman by preference. So am I. You are a mage, as am I. Your Gift itself is very versatile. That makes you an ideal choice for lone-work, if that’s needed in the future; I am the right woman to train that. And you’re going to <em>need</em> to heal. You, not just Tortall. And you're unlikely to get enough time, four years from now, that you can afford to pick things back up at the University.”</p><p class="p2">No hope of escape there, then.</p><p class="p2">Neal closes his eyes. </p><p class="p2">
  <em>How do I tell her?</em>
</p><p class="p2">Kel won't cry. That makes it worse, really. Neal will tell her that he is taking the place she has always dreamed of taking. And Kel's face will go Yamani-still, her eyes unreadable, as she takes in the news that her best friend, the person who is supposed to have her back, is taking <em>her</em> place. She won’t cry, not even for a betrayal like this. She won’t shout, or yell, or throw things. She might not even hit him, even if he deserves it.</p><p class="p2">She likely won’t still be his friend after he tells her, either.</p><p class="p2"><em>Just give me the mercy stroke, Neal</em>, he remembers, and no. <em>No. </em></p><p class="p2">Gods, he hates these kinds of choices. But better betrayed now than dead someday because her best friend wanted to keep his hands clean.</p><p class="p2">Neal takes a deep breath, and then another. His hands are trembling. He gives a half-bow from his seated position to the King, before he looks at Alanna.</p><p class="p2">“Sir Alanna of Pirate’s Swoop and Olau, you do me honour. I–” the words feel like lead on Neal's tongue. He forces them out anyway. “–I accept your offer.”</p><p class="p2">He senses rather than sees his father’s body relax.</p><p class="p2">The King leans back in his chair, a look of mingled sadness and satisfaction in his gaze, as he looks at Neal.</p><p class="p2">Sir Alanna is looking at him with exasperation in her face. “You look like a man facing the hangman’s noose. Ordinarily, I’d be offended by that, but this time, I’ll make an exception.”</p><p class="p2">She turns and half-bows to the King, who smiles and gets up from his chair, in nonverbal dismissal. As Baird and the Lioness stand, Neal follows suit. </p><p class="p2">Sir Alanna and his father herd him out the door, the Champion speaking all the while.</p><p class="p2">“Alright, starting points. When I’m in Corus, I see no reason you can’t be in the squires’ wing. Business as King’s Champion keeps me busy, but I’ll rarely need to go hither and yon at five minutes’ notice; when we do, we’ll find alternate accommodation. I only just got in from Barony Olau, so I’d prefer to wash myself off and put my feet up before I start getting you into shape and putting you through your paces. Meet me at the stables at the first bell – no, on second thoughts, make that the second bell, tomorrow morning. We’ll begin there.”</p><p class="p2">Neal nods numbly. “I…need to go and tell Kel.”</p><p class="p2">For the first time since she walked in the King's door, Sir Alanna's expression has a hint of gentleness. “I expect you do. Tomorrow, Queenscove.”</p><p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2">By the time he reaches the squire’s wing, his feet feel like they are made of stone, his head light and dizzy. The walk through the Palace has felt endless, as he continually tries to churn out the right words, something that would somehow lessen the betrayal, something that would somehow make this <em>less wrong, </em>and discards each of the fumbling excuses that come to his mind.</p><p class="p2">There’s nothing, <em>nothing</em> that he can say, really. If Kel hates him for this, she has every right; if she never wants to speak to him after this, Neal doesn’t know a single person who’d blame her. Neal grew up with a family legend, on his mother’s side, about a grand-uncle who was left standing at the altar, when his betrothed ran away with his best man. The two scenarios are different, but the scale is comparable.</p><p class="p2">Kel's door is open.</p><p class="p2">Neal swallows and walks in.</p><p class="p2">Jump’s claws scrape on the wooden floor, as he comes to greet Neal, and the sparrows cheep around him. Kel’s eyes are wide with surprise, as she pushes a stray lock of hair out of her face.</p><p class="p2">“Neal?” Her tone is concerned, but level, for all that. “What’s happened?”</p><p class="p2">Oh, where does he even <em>begin.</em> “I –” he runs his fingers through his hair, panicking. “I–”</p><p class="p2">Kel steps forward, glancing behind him warily. Then she takes one of his hands in her own. “Please tell me.”</p><p class="p2">Her hand is as callused as his, her fingers cool and dry, as she squeezes gently.</p><p class="p2">Under any other circumstance, the show of affection – brief, but enormous, for Kel – would steady him instantly. Today, Neal can’t help but wonder if it’s the last time she’ll ever touch him as a friend ever again.</p><p class="p2">He lets out a shaking breath. “Kel, sit down. Please.”</p><p class="p2">Kel’s eyes hold his, measured worry in them, as she sits down on her bed. Neal takes another shaky breath. Perhaps he ought to sit down, too.</p><p class="p2">When he is cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the wall, Jump comes to him and sets his head on Neal’s knee. He gives Neal’s trembling hand a reassuring lick. Crown, the queen sparrow, lands on Neal's shoulder, peeping loudly in his ear.</p><p class="p2">The sharp, shrill noise so close snaps Neal from his fear. He swallows and meets Kel’s gaze.</p><p class="p2">“Remember I told you I was meeting a knight today?” Kel nods. “I – the knight wants to take me. Father and the King, they think I should. I argued, I said it should be <em>you</em>, because it should, it really should, but they–”</p><p class="p2">“Neal, what’s <em>wrong?</em>” Confusion is brimming in Kel’s eyes, but her voice is level, as she cuts through his panic.</p><p class="p2">It takes all of his courage to keep looking at her. “Lady Alanna asked me to be her squire.”</p><p class="p2">Kel’s face loses all expression, turning stone-smooth. Only Jump’s head still resting on his knee keeps Neal from drawing his knees up to his chest. “She’s a healer, Kel. That’s – that’s why. I know it should be you, but. But she and the King said that it’s bad politically, that, that people would question if you were good. They said you’re getting an offer that’s good, really good. But – <em>Kel</em>–” his voice cracks. </p><p class="p2">Kel nods. Her face is <em>utterly</em>, terrifyingly expressionless, before she lowers her head, her hair falling forward and hiding her expression. Her palms remain flat against the bed, her arms spread.</p><p class="p2">He looks away, and sees the trunk beside her bed. “You’re packing? What <span class="s2">– why are you – are you <em>leaving?</em></span>”Something twists in his guts, hot and painful.</p><p class="p2">Kel looks at him, her face expressionless for a heartbeat longer. Then, slowly, the mask softens. Her mouth curves into the ghost of a smile, and there’s disappointment in her eyes, but also something warm.</p><p class="p2">“Lord Raoul asked me to be his squire,” she says.</p><p class="p2">His jaw drops. “Raoul?” His mind whirls frantically. Raoul. The Lioness’ friend from childhood. The Knight Commander of the Own.</p><p class="p2">Kel and <em>Raoul!</em></p><p class="p2">Kel nods, the hint of a smile on her face becoming more solid. Neal shifts against the wall, and whistles, already starting to smile at the thought.</p><p class="p2">“Goddess above. Goldenlake the Giantkiller,” he says. “This is <em>brilliant.</em> He might be the most respected knight in Tortall. Certainly one of the best-known ones, progressive or no. Talk about an impeccable credential.”</p><p class="p2">“What are you talking about?” Kel demands, her eyebrows shooting up.</p><p class="p2">“Nobody will be able to claim you’re magicked to succeed, or being given special treatment, or any nonsense like that,” he explains. “Not even the most hidebound, Gentle-Mother loving conservative. Not after four years with the King’s Own, in the full and public view of everyone, people who like you and people who don’t.”</p><p class="p2">Kel’s expression is arch. “That’d be a relief, if I cared about their opinions. You really think this is good?”</p><p class="p2">“Very,” he admits. “Not to mention the man himself.” He scratches the back of his neck, thinking about that. “Lord Raoul might be the most easygoing man alive. My new knight-mistress, on the other hand…”</p><p class="p2">Kel scratches at her ear-lobe. “You’ll just…have to get on with her?” she offers.</p><p class="p2">Neal can’t help a snort of laughter at that, and he stares at the ceiling. Goddess save him. Then again, he’d somehow survived the meeting.</p><p class="p2">“I’ll manage. She probably won’t kill me, out of friendship with my parents, if for no other reason.” Kel’s smile is more real at that, and Neal lets out a sigh of relief. Then he blinks, as a question occurs to him. “So why are you packing, if you’ve just gotten an offer from Lord Raoul?”</p><p class="p2">“I accepted. I have to be ready to go with him, at any time,” Kel explains. “You know how the Own is. They’re on the road in any season. I’m going to be living in a room next to his. I don’t even know how often we’ll be in the Palace.”</p><p class="p2">He smiles. “Neither do I. I’m not sure how far afield Champion business takes Lady Alanna.” Although given that as the Champion, she has a very important role as representing the strength of the monarch… “We’ll see each other on the Progress, though?”</p><p class="p2">It is a fact, but he phrases it as a question. It's not so much whether they <em>will</em> see each other. The real question is, does Kel still <em>want</em> to see him? Are they still friends?</p><p class="p2">Kel smiles back, a real, amused smile, before she stands and takes another tunic from her dresser. “I expect so. Lord Raoul is very much <em>not</em> looking forward to that, it seems.”</p><p class="p2">Neal laughs, from guilty relief and a dozen memories of Lord Raoul trying to wriggle his way out of various ceremonies.</p><p class="p2">“Oh, I’ll bet not.” He shakes his head. “I bet they planned this, you know? They’re friends. And she said, in the meeting, that she thought there’d be a limit to how much she could teach you, even if the politics were different.”</p><p class="p2">Kel’s hands still in mid-motion; her entire body seems to freeze. When she speaks, a moment later, her voice is sharp and bitter. “What <em>limit</em> would that be, Neal? What would the only lady knight in Tortall <em>not</em> be able to teach me about knighthood?”</p><p class="p2">He sucks in his breath sharply, feeling the anger in her voice words like a punch. But – gods, he can’t blame her. “You <em>are</em> angry.”</p><p class="p2">Kel’s body remains rigid for a moment later, before her shoulders slump. Then she turns, the tunic still half-folded over one arm. Her hazel eyes are dark with pain as she looks at him.</p><p class="p2">“Not with you,” she says, scrubbing the fingers of her free hand through her hair. Her voice is oddly soft. “Not with <em>you</em>, Neal.”</p><p class="p2">The soft words have the weight of a promise. A lump forms in Neal's throat. “No?”</p><p class="p2">Kel shrugs, looking away for a heartbeat before she looks back at him. “I’m not really sure <em>what</em> I feel right now. At first, when I saw you earlier, I was about as low as I could be. I’d been to touch the Chamber door.”</p><p class="p2">“Oh. Fun.” Neal gets to his feet and comes to stand with her, allowing her to lower her voice. No need for the hallway to hear. “What happened?”</p><p class="p2">“My worst fear. I had a vision of myself as a desk knight,” Kel says. “Working with Sir Gareth of Naxen, in the Royal Archives. Miles and miles away from the field.”</p><p class="p2">Relief and envy course through him, giving rise to an almost unbearable temptation to quip: <em>would that be so bad? </em>But the shadow in Kel’s gaze, the way she is glancing towards the ground, makes him hold his tongue long enough for her to continue. “I didn’t go through page training to be safely tucked away from combat, Neal.”</p><p>…This girl, he thinks. This girl who fears more than anything, being <em>kept from risking her life </em>for other people. </p><p class="p2">Neal takes a deep breath and lets it out with a sigh.</p><p class="p2">“No,” he agrees. “No, you didn’t.”</p><p class="p2">Kel shrugs, a smile hovering at the corner of her mouth. “Then I went to the tilting yard, Neal, and Lord Raoul found me. But the vision felt as real as anything.”</p><p class="p2">Neal shivers, thinking of his own vision. “I’ll bet it did.” Kel had gotten off <em>lightly</em> with a vision of paperwork. “Kel, don’t touch the door again.”She looks at him, a question in her eyes. Worry makes his words tumble faster. “Kel, the Chamber’s driven squires mad. It’s killed them. Mithros, I’m <em>still</em> seeing things, a month later–”</p><p class="p2">Kel cocks her head to the side, and Neal abruptly realises his mistake.</p><p class="p2">“You never said,” she says.</p><p class="p2">He looks at her half-packed trunk, unable to hold her gaze. “Three days after our exams. I knew about the tradition from my brothers. I…I was curious.” The shape created by the missing flesh in Jump’s ear is almost a perfect semi-circle, he notices. “I wish I hadn’t.”</p><p class="p2">“What happened?”</p><p class="p2">Neal scrubs his hand over his face. “Do you really have to ask?”</p><p class="p2">“I want to know what has you looking like someone just died,” Kel says.</p><p class="p2">Neal looks back at her, intending to turn her away with brutal sarcasm, if necessary. But when he tries to speak, an anguished noise comes out, instead of words.</p><p class="p2">Kel sits on the bed heavily. “No. Someone did?”</p><p class="p2">Neal nods. He can’t say <em>"you, and our friends." </em>It comes too close. “I – we – wounded, people were wounded so badly. And I couldn’t do a thing to heal them.”</p><p class="p2">Kel’s ‘<em>oh’</em> is so soft, it’s barely a breath. “You’ve been spending all your time in your room with books, instead of practising with me…With books about <em>healing.</em> No wonder you said ‘no’ to all those other knights who talked to you!”</p><p class="p2">His eyes widen, and he shakes his head. “Kel, no – I swear by Mithros, I had <em>no</em> idea Lady Alanna was going to ask.”</p><p class="p2">She snorts. “I <em>know</em> that, Neal. You’re much too honourable to keep something like that from me.”Her eyes are affectionate, as she cranes her neck to look up at him from the bed. “You just couldn’t say ‘yes’ to anyone else, either.”</p><p class="p2">“No. No, I couldn’t.” He licks his lips. “Kel. Are <em>we</em> alright? I know you hoped it'd be her who would teach you.”</p><p class="p2">Kel looks at him. And slowly, the regret in her eyes shifts to something else, something steady and fond. “I did. And part of me’s still sad that it can’t be,” she admits. “But Neal, if it can’t be me…I’m glad it’ll be <em>you</em>.”</p><p class="p2">And once more – almost as though it's a <em>theme</em> for today, or something – Neal finds himself at a loss for words to respond to that. But maybe, just this once, he can skip the verbal response.</p><p class="p2">Neal reaches for Kel's hand, pulling her up from her bed and into his arms, into a tight fierce hug.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> Her arms wrap around his shoulders, warm and solid, tangible and <em>real,</em> and a</span>s they hold each other, he can feel her cheek curve against his with her smile.</p><p class="p2">“Besides,” Kel says, her voice a little breathy. Neal loosens his grip, ever so slightly. He hadn’t meant to squeeze too hard. “Someone needs to nag you into eating your vegetables. Who’d do that, if not me?”</p><p class="p2">He laughs into her hair. “Yes, <em>Mother</em>.”</p><p class="p2">Kel shifts, kicking gently at his boot-covered ankle; Neal yelps dramatically and retaliates by trying to get her into a headlock. The resulting scuffle takes them halfway around the room before Kel settles it by throwing him over her hip.  Neal has just enough warning to take the fall on his arms.</p><p class="p2">With a clatter of claws, Jump leaps up onto his back. The dog turns in a circle once, twice, and then lies down between Neal’s shoulder blades, thumping his tail in satisfaction. A sparrow cheeps over Neal's head and then settles into his hair.</p><p class="p2">Neal groans into the floor. “<em>Mindelan.</em> Call your menagerie off.”</p><p class="p2">Kel laughs, then whistles. The weight disappears off Neal’s shoulder. “Fine. But you have to help me pack my trunk.”</p><p class="p2">Neal rolls over and lets her haul him to his feet. “This is extortion,” he tells her, as he goes to her dresser and opens another drawer. “Where do you want me to start?”</p><p class="p2">Everything has changed. Everything is changing. For the first time in four years, Neal has no idea what tomorrow will bring.</p><p class="p2">But if Kel is still his friend after today, then Neal thinks he can survive whatever the gods throw at him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>1. This chapter kicked my butt. The last week involved life-altering realisations, epiphanies, and decisions. It's been exhausting. Also, Neal was...Neal. </p><p>2. Has anyone has written about what Neal saw when he touched the Chamber door as a squire? Like, <em>anyone?</em></p><p>3. Neal spending time at the Mindelan townhouse gives me life. Ilane, Piers and Anders adore this. Cleon does not, since Kel's crush is visible to everyone in the house except Neal. </p><p>4. On my headcanon about the Queenscoves: Often, in a situation of anxiety, some members of a family will over-function. They'll insist that they're fine; try to take care of others. Others will under-function. They may retreat from normal life, or try to grow 'down' rather than up.</p><p>5. Neal's response is a hybrid. It's over-functioning: telling himself, "this is the legacy I have to shoulder". It's <em>also</em> under-functioning; by stepping into a life that is LIKE Graeme and Cathal's, he sidesteps asking: "What is my life going to be like without them?" </p><p>Baird and Wilina both freeze, initially. They functioned, but it took them at least a year to come out of the deep mourning and become fully emotionally available once more.</p><p>Jessamine under-functioned. She reacts to the War and losing her brothers by trying to cling to the "before" she remembers. Not going to the convent was part of that at first. By the time Jessamine was twelve, Wil twigged that something was wrong and took her back to Queenscove. This met with kicking and screaming at first, but Wil persisted. Eventually, Jessamine found a way to heal from most of the grief, with time, space and the sea. </p><p>6. Completely making this stuff up about Seaver's Mum and Tasride. I do think it likely that if a squire got on really well with his knight-master, that the squire or the knight might be considered a potential husband for any sisters or nieces, for example, or even daughters.</p><p>7. Tell me there wasn't a time when Neal and Kel were standing shoulder to shoulder, and someone approaching Neal even though Kel was more skilled at what they were doing. Tell me Neal didn't immediately resolve to make sure that could NOT happen again. </p><p>10. I was trying to think of who the third knight might be, and my brain said: "WHAT IF IT WAS ANDERS?" I was so tickled by the idea that I didn't analyse it, just wrote it.</p><p> I think the offer is chiefly Anders being compassionately practical. However, an immature thirteen-year-old inside me is cackling at the thought that Ilane, Piers, Anders and Inness might all be secretly engaged in Shipping Wars between K/C and K/N. (Poor Inness is very outnumbered, as the sole member of the K/C faction. Conal is just jealous of the attention.)</p><p>11. Anders just found Wilina in the Palace, told her that Neal had had a panic attack, that *something* was up and was keeping him from accepting any squire's offers. The fact that Neal didn't immediately suspect this delights me no end.</p><p>12. Playing around with the narration's addresses for Wilina and Baird in this chapter. It's quite a difference from the first chapter, but then, Neal's lived apart from his parents for the better part of four years and he's almost twenty now. So it makes sense to me.</p><p>13. Wilina as a Master of theoretical magic and member of the Council of Mages is, of course, taken from h_vane's "Rampant." I like to imagine she stays on the Council, but probably stepped down from being "Head" by the Immortals' War.</p><p>14. I made Conal a twin with Demadria because why not. It seemed to work timeline-wise.</p><p>15. Wilina's concern of whether Neal is choosing this for himself is not exactly negated by him immediately comparing himself to his brothers. </p><p>16. Baird still loans his textbooks to his apprentices to this day. The Tortallan University is catching up to the Carthaki one in sophistication every year, in terms of the quality of <em>teaching.</em> Unfortunately, textbooks take longer to do the same thing.</p><p>17. Cathal attempted to heal his younger brother's scraped knee once. Several balls of static electricity turned the scrape into a nasty burn. They both cried. Neal inherited a mix of their parents' Gifts; Cathal got Wil's. (She is not a healer.)</p><p>18. The idea came to me that Neal, doing sword-work with the fourth-years since his first year, is exponentially ahead of his cohort by the time he IS a fourth-year. Therefore, Wyldon takes it upon himself to work Neal harder. (Neal, being Neal, views this is enmity, not a subtle compliment.)</p><p>19. Jon and Alanna betting on what Neal would say to the offer is a shameless borrow from LinaOfTheAlleys. You should read her version of events now, bc it is GREAT.</p><p>20. The idea of unused healing magic eating its owner alive is an old favourite of mine.</p><p>21. Kel's breathlessness has nothing to do with how tight the hug is.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. on tilting at windmills (Squire, part two)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The first two days of Neal's career as Alanna's squire. </p><p>In which Neal jumps to conclusions, receives a horse, fails at politeness, picks up a patient, and drives his new knight-mistress up a wall.</p><p>Or: it's amazing how much tension and trouble you can create by trying to solve a problem that isn't there.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>BOOM BOOM, GUYS! I LIVE!!!</p><p>I know it took forever. Trying to get a job (have gotten one!), get clear of a health scare (spoiler alert: I'm probably fine!) and visit my sister, all in the one month – not to mention falling straight into the rabbit hole of New Amsterdam - has meant this chapter has taken forever. However, it is also Very Long, so you can have that as a consolation. </p><p>Also, given all the many ideas I do still have for the remaining squire years, you can rest assured that the other chapters will probably also be Long.</p><p>This chapter is brought to you by:<br/>a) all my various feelings about medicine and doctors and healers, as focussed via New Amsterdam;<br/>b) my two-year old nephew, from whom I have taken direct inspiration for the middle of the chapter; and<br/>c) a fic which off-handedly mentioned Alanna promising herself, after Ishak, that she'd never take on another headstrong young man to teach the Gift too, and ALL young men are headstrong. </p><p>With my apologies to Don Quixote and Cervantes, because I am taking the concept of quixoticism and running very far and fast in a particular direction, which may or may not be faithful to the concept. Also, all medical errors in this chapter are mine – sadly, I had to handwave a lot of it and just call it artistic licence. Also, no beta or even edit check-over; today, we die like men.</p><p>Okay, that should be everything! On with the show!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Let’s talk about Neal and Alanna, shall we?</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">* * * * * * * * * * </p><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p1">Let’s talk about a woman who’s famously blunt; she says what she thinks, when she thinks it. She will embarrass herself, and anyone else, if she needs to, for she has practised a conscious lack of subtlety until it almost became art.<br/>
She has spent a lifetime learning how to be intrusive; she upends the status quo as easily as she breathes.</p><p class="p1">We are talking about a woman who would make Don Quixote turn green with envy.</p><p class="p1">Let’s talk about a boy who is made of paradoxes: spectacularly blind to the obvious, startlingly perceptive of others’ feelings, and has a stunningly subtle kind streak.<br/>
<br/>
He will never embarrass himself or anyone else by obviously displaying his generosity, but it's much like negative space; you find it when you look for what isn't there.His kindness is not heroics or grand declarations.  It's his eyes averted from a friend’s weakness; it is a conversation diverted from an embarrassment. It is invisible layers of protection, clothing for naked vulnerability.</p><p class="p1">Let’s talk about a boy who is hot-tempered; who is dutiful yet dramatic. He insists on sarcasm at every turn; his inner romantic annoys his friends till they beat him with loaves of bread. Let’s talk about a boy who dreams in impossible dreams, knowing full well that he dreams.</p><p class="p1">It’s almost quixotic.</p><p class="p1">* * * * * * * * * * </p><p class="p1">Let’s start at the beginning.</p><p class="p3">* * * * * * * * * * </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The great bell of the Palace wakes Neal from his sleep.</p><p class="p1">After four years of page training,he can no more sleep through the bell than he can forget which fork to use, even if his life would be immeasurably better if he could.</p><p class="p1">He rolls over in his bed as the chimes split the air, and thinks useless, longing thoughts of a time when his biggest obstacle to the dream of sleeping in was the risk of his little sister waking him up. Normally, by speaking very loudly into his ear, or yanking the blankets off him. If Jessamine was really itching to for him to <em>wake up</em> <em>already</em>, with ice cubes. She’d done that once before it was even dawn.</p><p class="p1">Even nostalgia can’t take the edge off that memory. Neal blearily opens his eyes.</p><p class="p1">The first thing he sees is a shirt, tunic and hose on the clothes-stand. Not blue and silver, this time, or red and gold. The shirt is white; the tunic and hose are both tawny brown, and the tunic is trimmed in yellow. It looks terribly familiar, even though Neal’s quite sure he’s never owned anything in those colours in his life.</p><p class="p1">After a moment, he places it. The colours of Pirate’s Swoop.</p><p class="p1">Neal holds very, very still for a moment, as memory surges over him.</p><p class="p1">Meeting with Lady Alanna, the King, and his father.Talking to Kel later on. The <em>offer</em>.</p><p class="p1">He’d accepted it.</p><p class="p1">Neal shivers, taking that in for a moment. He’d accepted it. Whatever the consequences might be, he has no way to turn back now. He had <em>committed</em>, for the next four years of his life.</p><p class="p1">He <em>is</em> committed.</p><p class="p1">It’s probably the wrong way to think about it. Certainly the Stump would chastise him for thinking about it in those terms. He’s been given a chance to pursue knighthood, and receive the magical training he desperately needed, and learn from one of the realm’s greatest heroes. By any reasonable reckoning of the situation, Neal ought to be leaping out of the bed and bursting into jubilant song, at about this point in time.</p><p class="p1">But there would be two things missing from that reckoning, Neal thinks, as he gets up from the bed.</p><p class="p1">First, that if the world were a place with any kind of decency or fundamental justice woven it, Neal would not be the one about to begin riding with the Lioness. Kel would be.</p><p class="p1">(If the world were a place with fundamental justice woven into it, Neal would not <em>need</em> to ride with the Lioness. Or any knight.)</p><p class="p1">Second, anyone expecting Neal to celebrate would be oblivious to what the lady had actually <em>said</em> during the meeting. Which had boiled down to, “I can’t teach Kel without politically sabotaging her – but I can teach <em>you</em>, and you need to be taught<em>.”</em></p><p class="p1">Which is true, Neal thinks, shrugging into the tunic, and reaching for a comb. He <em>does</em> need to be taught.</p><p class="p1">And it had seemed when they spoke yesterday that even Kel had forgiven him for taking the place that should be hers; that even Kel wouldn’t hold it against him, even though she had every right to.</p><p class="p1">But it is just now sinking in for Neal, as he drags the comb through his hair, that Alanna <em>wanted</em> to teach Kel. Had said as much, in the meeting.</p><p class="p1">She must have dreamed about Kel being her squire at least as much as Kel did. She had conceded that it was politically impossible, but she had also said during the meeting that if she could teach Kel, she would.</p><p class="p1">Alanna has lost the chance to teach the only girl following in her foot-steps, just as Kel has lost the chance to be taught by the only woman who has gone in front of her.</p><p class="p1">Neal looks at his reflection for a moment longer and smiles mirthlessly.</p><p class="p1">He doesn’t <em>look</em> like a thief, anymore than he did yesterday.</p><p class="p1">Oh, he could plead innocence, albeit on technical grounds. Wring his hands once or twice, declare it an unfortunate consequence of the political landscape, but what can he do? He had to accept the offer. He was a hapless beneficiary; he bears no responsibility for this. And like most technical truths, that would be a <em>complete lie</em>.</p><p class="p1">He, and no-one else, had accepted the offer. His father might have helped engineer it, but Neal had accepted it. Kel has forgiven him for that. Neal has no idea if Alanna has, as well.</p><p class="p1">For a moment, Neal fights down the urge to <em>bolt</em> – to run through the Palace, run through Corus, back to his old dormitory in the Mages’ College, or to Queenscove. To run, run, <em>run</em> until he finds a place where he can let go.</p><p class="p1">He lets his breath out slowly and shuts the door of his room behind him.</p><p class="p1"><em>I said “yes”,</em> he reminds himself firmly.<em> It’s done.</em></p><p class="p1">
  <em>It’s too late to turn back now.</em>
</p><p class="p1">He walks down the hallway to Kel’s door. Levelheaded Kel, who is always far better to him than he deserves, will be able to steady him now, if anyone can.</p><p class="p1">He knocks against her door. “Kel? Open up!”</p><p class="p1">There is silence in the room for a moment. Then light footsteps.</p><p class="p1">Lalasa’s eyes, wide and apologetic, meet his, as she opens the door.</p><p class="p1">“I’m sorry, Master Neal. She’s gone.” Neal’s heart skips a beat. “She asked me to tell you - Third Company was called away last night. To a village in the Royal Forest. She asked me to give her apologies, for not saying goodbye.”</p><p class="p1"><em>Oh.</em> </p><p class="p1">Neal rocks back on his feet, slumping.</p><p class="p1">She’d said as much, yesterday. <em>I have to be ready to go with him, at any time.</em></p><p class="p1">He should have seen it coming. Dom had visited Neal a few times, over the course of his years as a page, but always impromptu; he never prearranged any meetings that he might need to renege on.</p><p class="p1">He just…hadn’t expected it to happen so <em>fast.</em></p><p class="p1">Neal realises that Lalasa is still standing in the doorway of Kel’s room, Kel’s <em>former</em> room, waiting for a response.</p><p class="p1">He tries to cudgel his brain to order. “Right. Called away, Royal Forest. Right, I see. Thank you, Lalasa.”</p><p class="p1">“Master Neal–” Lalasa cuts herself off, as though not quite sure what to say.</p><p class="p1">Neal shakes his head. “No, I know. Bad luck, that’s all it is. I’d have liked to see her off, but it can’t be helped.”</p><p class="p1">“You could always write to her,” Lalasa suggests, rather hesitantly.</p><p class="p1">Neal smiles and sketches a deep, playful bow that he does not feel. “You’re right, of course. Have a good day, Lalasa.”</p><p class="p1">He turns on his heel towards the mess.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">* * * * * * * *</p><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p1">Let us interrupt the narrative, ever so briefly, to observe one simple point:</p><p class="p1">Sometimes, a smart young man (or woman) does not know <em>nearly</em> as much as they think they know.</p><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p3">* * * * * * * *</p><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p1">Neal realises, after searching the stable-block reserved for the realm’s senior knights from one end to the other, that he has <em>no</em> idea where to find his knight-mistress.</p><p class="p1"><em>The stables</em>, she’d said. And in most places, that would suffice.</p><p class="p1">However, the Royal Palace has stables for all the residents of the Palace: the senior court nobles, the King’s council, as well as the pages and squires. It holds the stables for the royal family. It contains stables for the civilian postal service, as well as the royal messengers, and stables for the realm’s military. For the Army messengers, as well as the stables reserved for the King’s Own, and the Queen’s Riders. The fields for the Palace horses stretch over a dozen acres and form over a score of stable blocks.</p><p class="p1">To solve this problem by searching is a fool’s errand. Neal hurries back to the pages’ stables, manages a quick quiet word with Stefan Groomsman, and then follows his directions to a stable block in the military quarter.</p><p class="p1">His shoulders hunch beneath the morning’s rain. The drizzle is light, but the wet and humid air is clinging to his skin, to the hair on the back of his neck.</p><p class="p1">Combine that with the fact that he is late, and Neal thinks the day is off to a <em>cracking</em> start.</p><p class="p1">The emblems carved into the stable-block’s corner post proclaim its occupants: the mounts of the Army messengers and Crown messengers, who liaise between the Palace and the realm’s key defences. For a moment, Neal wonders if Stefan is having one on him.</p><p class="p1">Then he spies a short figure, underneath a tough dark brown cloak, leaning against the pillar, tapping a rhythm on the hilt of the sword, feet planted wide and firm in the forming mud.</p><p class="p1">Neal hurries underneath the eaves of the building. “Sir Alanna?”</p><p class="p1">“Queenscove.” Her tone is dry, as she flicks the hood of the cloak off and walks into the lee of the pillar. She tilts her head back up to meet his eyes, and there is a scowl on her face. “Any particular reason why you’re late?”</p><p class="p1">Just as he’d thought: a <em>wonderful</em> start. “I was at the knights’ stable by the second bell, my lady,” Neal says. He bites back “<em>and you weren’t” </em>just in time.</p><p class="p1">The lady’s scowl becomes ferocious, before she pauses. “I didn’t tell you that you’d find me here yesterday?”</p><p class="p1">Neal shakes his head.</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna is silent for a moment. Then she lets out a hiss of disgust and shakes her head fiercely. Neal observes that some of the anger has faded from her face, as she looks up again. “Right. I should have been more specific. Sorry, Neal.”</p><p class="p1">Before Neal can process the startling apology, the knight is already shrugging, one hand coming up in a gesture that encompasses the Palace. “I’m used to people knowing where they’ll find me, in the rabbit warren. For future reference: As a rule, I stable my mounts here, rather than with most of the knights. I get along better with the Army messengers.” A quick sharp grin, flashing across the Champion’s face. “They don’t fuss about politics or try to bait me into challenging them or throw out challenges that I can’t respond to. They just get the job done. Much better for everyone’s health.”</p><p class="p1">Neal can’t quite suppress his smile. “I see. Nice, peaceable folk, the Army messengers.”</p><p class="p1">“Quite,” Sir Alanna agrees, with a dry smile. “You should probably also know this for future reference: rain, snow, the cold and assorted forms of miserable weather all tend to turn me into a bear with a sore head. Contrary to what you might have heard about me, I <em>do</em> have the ability to keep my temper on a leash. But I still get a bit tetchy.”</p><p class="p1">Neal wonders, around the feeling of shock that Sir Alanna is<em> apologising</em>, to <em>him</em>, of all people, if it’s a good sign that she is warning him about it. Although her hatred of the cold is common knowledge among the court, same as her famous temper. Can he admit to having heard as much, or would that also irritate her?</p><p class="p1">It seems safer to not find out until he has to. Neal tries a polite nod, and the old neutral, non-committal fallback of, “I see, my lady.”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna gives him a sharp look, which slowly morphs into unadulterated exasperation. Neal is an authority on the subject, having received many such looks throughout the past six years. However, this time, he had not been <em>intending</em> to elicit such a reaction, which is much rarer.</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna crosses her arms. Her pursed lips and set jaw indicate irritation, but she raises an eyebrow, as she stares at him intently. As though he’s a bug that she’s found on the sole of her shoe, but he’s <em>just</em> interesting enough that for now, she’s refraining from squashing him.</p><p class="p1">“I don’t suppose,” she says, after a long minute. Her tone is oddly hopeful. “That the rumours of your insolence might have been exaggerated? That the little-known truth is that you just have no sense of tact or diplomacy?”</p><p class="p1">“No, my lady,” Neal says promptly.</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna looks pained. “No, the rumours are not exaggerated, or no, they are?”</p><p class="p1">“No, the rumours are not exaggerated <em>and</em> no, I have no sense of tact. Or when to keep my mouth shut.” He is about to illustrate the point by telling her about Kel’s habit of kicking him to try shut him up, and stops just in time. No need to rub salt in the wound, that Alanna <em>could</em> have had a vastly more sane and sensible squire, if the world was a sensible and sane place. </p><p class="p1">The Lioness sighs, rubbing at her forehead. “Right.” She opens the stable door. “Well, come on, anyway. I have someone for you to meet.”</p><p class="p1">“I have Southwind, milady,” Neal tells her, suddenly very grateful that his legs are long enough for him to keep up with her very brisk pace.</p><p class="p1">“Life moves faster since the Immortals moved in. Your horse is a good courser, from what Stefan tells me. She’ll go forever, and she’s unflappable. That’s important. But you’re going to need a horse with a destrier’s attitude for scrambles.”</p><p class="p1"><em>That</em> does not sound good. Not at all. <em>A destrier’s attitude</em> calls to mind Peachblossom’s large square teeth, about to rip into Neal’s arm. Or his elbow. Or his fingers. The monster isn’t picky.</p><p class="p1">Before Neal can find a way to tell his knight-mistress that he’s starting to think of running back to the University out of self-preservation, she pivots to the side and then comes to a complete stop. “Here. Take a gander.”</p><p class="p1">Neal manages, just, to avoid knocking her over as he halts. “What?” He ignores Sir Alanna’s muttered remark – “can’t possibly have been this clumsy at your age” <span class="s1">–</span> and turns to the stall she indicates.</p><p class="p1">His breath catches in his throat.</p><p class="p1">The Lioness snorts, her eyes glimmering with amusement, as she waves him forward. “Go on, introduce yourself.”</p><p class="p1">A soft, awestruck feeling which he hasn’t felt in years envelopes him, like a gentle mist. Neal holds out his hand for the mare to sniff, and can’t help the feeling of relief he feels when the mare blows on it. She might be the prettiest lady to ever give him a chance.</p><p class="p1">Neal sets his hand underneath her muzzle and blows gently into the mare’s nostrils. When she blows back, he lets himself into the stall.</p><p class="p1">“Well, look at <em>you</em>.”</p><p class="p1">The mare isn’t trying to take a chunk out of Neal’s arm, fingers, or any other body part. Her coat is a coppery chestnut, from her shoulders to her fetlocks; her mane and tail are flaxen, like trapped sunlight. Her shoulders are broad, and her chest is deep.</p><p class="p1">Neal kneels and runs his hands carefully over her legs. Strong, well-muscled. And she has tiny white socks around the fetlocks of her forelegs.</p><p class="p1">“You’re <em>lovely</em>,” he tells her, as he gets to his feet again. The mare flicks one ear, with the air of someone being told something they already know. “Not so tall.” Fifteen hands two inches, at a rough guess.</p><p class="p1">“She isn’t,” Sir Alanna agrees. “I’ve found that smaller horses are more manoeuvrable and have better endurance. She comes from my family’s stables. She and Darkmoon have a grand-dam in common, my first horse Moonlight. I thought she might suit you.”</p><p class="p1">The mare’s ears prick forward as he comes back to her head. Her eyes are dark, with an intelligent, lively spark in them. Neal sets his thumb at the junction of her lips. “If my lady pleases?” The mare’s ears swivel to the side before flicking forward again.</p><p class="p1">Neal has the distinct sense that the horse is <em>teasing</em> him. “So forward of you, lady. And at our first meeting, too!”</p><p class="p1">Behind him, there’s a muffled snort. Neal elects to ignore it and inspects the mare’s teeth. Excellent. The mare can’t be more than seven years old. Fully trained, then, but young enough that Neal will be with her for quite some time.</p><p class="p1">Neal studies the mare for a moment longer, then laughs when she butts him in the chest. She snuffles in the direction of his tunic pocket. “Oh,<em> fine</em>.” He fishes out the apple he’d snuck from the mess hall and offers it to her. “Just for you, milady.”</p><p class="p1">“You’re going to spoil her.” Sir Alanna’s voice is not exactly displeased.</p><p class="p1">Neal smiles at the mare. “I think so.” He turns back to his knight-mistress. “Does she have a name? It might get a bit confusing if I keep calling both of you ‘my lady’ or ‘milady.’ And I think that scenario would end with me being killed.”</p><p class="p1">The corners of Sir Alanna’s mouth quirk up again. “Probably not <em>killed</em>, Queenscove. But no, she hasn’t got a name yet. I thought I’d leave that up to you.”</p><p class="p1">“I’m very bad at naming animals, sir,” he warns her. “I come up with possibilities and argue myself out of them. When my father bought me Southwind, it took me a <em>week </em>to name her.”</p><p class="p1">“We don’t have that kind of time, squire,” Sir Alanna says, but she sounds amused. “Best come up with something.”</p><p class="p1">Neal looks at the mare, feeling the familiar panic settle over him.</p><p class="p1"><em>Northwind?</em> Sleep and fertility somehow don’t feel like the right qualities to invoke for a destrier.</p><p class="p1"><em>Socks?</em> Pro: she has them, on at least two legs. Con: if he calls his horse that, he’ll be laughed out of the mess before he even walks through the doors.</p><p class="p1"><em>Copper? </em>Matches her coat colour, but rather uninspiring. </p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna sighs. “Oh, Goddess.”</p><p class="p1">“Taken, last time I checked,” Neal says, before he can think better of it. The sound that comes from behind him sounds suspiciously like Sir Alanna is choking. “You said she’s descended from your first horse?”</p><p class="p1">“Moonlight – my mare – gave birth to this one’s sire. Her dam is one of my husband’s horses, a mare named Rumour.”</p><p class="p1">“What did you name Moonlight’s colt?”</p><p class="p1">“Magelight. He was the spitting image of <em>his</em> sire, Magefire, but he had Moonlight’s markings. So I named him after them both.” She jerked her chin at the horse. “She’s got Magelight’s height and Rumour’s colouring.”</p><p class="p1">He scratches at the mare’s forelock, thinking. ‘Mage-rumour’ <em>would</em> be terrible, and simply mashing her parents’ names together would be a travesty for such a pretty lady. But the general principle of combining the names might work, so ‘Mage’-something.</p><p class="p1">Mage-something and ‘rumour.’</p><p class="p1">Rumour. Gossip. Talk. Chit-chat. Everything that floats around the court, through the city, down the alleys in soft murmurs. The one thing that even mages joke is faster than light. Rumours, mutterings, whispers.</p><p class="p1">Whisper. Hmm.</p><p class="p1">Yes, that might do.</p><p class="p1">“I think…Magewhisper,” Neal says, at last. He tests the sound of the name on his tongue. “Yes. Magewhisper.” He combs through the mare’s forelock. “Good thing you’re not a stallion. If you squealed every time you met another fellow, I’d look very foolish for naming you after something quiet.”</p><p class="p1">“Daylight’s burning, Queenscove,” Sir Alanna says.</p><p class="p1">Neal looks back over his shoulder and then looks up at the skylight overhead. Even the most generous observer would have to call it grey.</p><p class="p1">“Figuratively speaking,” Sir Alanna says, rolling her eyes. “The point is that there’s no time for you to contemplate whether or not you look like a fool. We’re all fools, in this business.”</p><p class="p1">Neal stares at the sharp grin that flashes across his knight-mistress’ face. <em>Was that a joke?</em></p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna continues, apparently oblivious to his shock. “Your next job is to fetch Southwind, her tack, and settle her into the next stall. Then we’ll let her get to know her new friend, while I see where you’re at with healing.”</p><p class="p1">Neal is almost inclined to protest. But healing was the one thing that drove him to sign up for this particular mad venture in the first place. So–</p><p class="p1">“Yessir,” Neal says, with one last stroke to his new horse’s beauteous muzzle.</p><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p3">* * * * * * * * * * </p><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p1">A fire is cheerfully crackling in the grate of the Lioness’ rooms, and that is the only good thing about his current situation. That, and the mug of tea over which he is protectively semi-hunched.</p><p class="p1">They have both abandoned their boots; the Lioness is cross-legged on a comfortable-looking divan. Neal is sitting cross-legged on a highly decorative, highly uncomfortable cedar chair, and wondering, around the barrage of other questions and answers bouncing around in his brain, how long he’s going to retain feeling in his buttocks. The thin layer of cushioning on the chair is an insult to the very concept of upholstery.</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna closes the cover of the last book with a decisive <em>thunk, </em>and setting it on top of the stack on the floor next to the couch. “Right,” she says.</p><p class="p1">Her voice is almost hoarse; as it might be, after she had thoroughly quizzed him up and down on herbal cures, triage judgements, nonmagical care procedures, and anatomy.</p><p class="p1">For his part, his head is pounding with the effort. Depending on how you measure time, the Lioness has been quizzing him for over an hour, or for a pot and a half of tea.Neal can now inform any interested parties that the Lioness is as ruthless with dusty healing tomes in her hands as she is with a sharp weapon.</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna continues: “So you’ve retained the fundamentals, but not much more than that. I’d say you’ve lost maybe a year’s worth of progress from where you were, when you left the University. Not bad.”</p><p class="p1">Neal grimaces into his tea. “Thank you, sir.”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna sighs, as though disappointed. Neal carefully lifts his cup another inch to hide whatever his face is doing in response.</p><p class="p1">“You-” Sir Alanna winces and picks up her own cup of tea. After a long drink, she speaks again, her voice level. “You’re actually fortunate that you’ve retained so much. If you weren’t being difficult right now, I’d say I was impressed.” She sets the book aside. “So that leaves your practical skills to test.”</p><p class="p1">“Oh.” Neal tries to dredge up more enthusiasm, as he glances cautiously out the window to where the rain is still pelting down. The storm is not about to let up anytime soon. “Right.”</p><p class="p1">“I don’t know why you’re looking out the window,” his knight-mistress says tartly. “You have two patients right here.”</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Huh?</em>
</p><p class="p1">Her grin is sharp when he looks back at her, and she points at him imperiously. “You have a headache, and have had one for the past ten minutes at least. My voice hurts like I’ve been on a battlefield, not tucked up in front of a fire. So let’s see what you can do about both those problems.”</p><p class="p1"><em>Oh. </em>Well, they won’t have to go out in the rain. On the other hand, there’s a sense in which that is <em>worse</em>.</p><p class="p1">“Yes, sir,” he says, trying not to show his nervousness.</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna rolls her eyes. Evidently, he did not succeed. Then she waves her hand again. “Well, chop chop, Neal. Show me what you can do.”</p><p class="p1">Here goes nothing, then.</p><p class="p1">The headache first. That will be the harder one, but the first thing about a headache is the reduction of the capacity to think clearly. Best to take it from first principles.</p><p class="p1">Neal closes his eyes, settles his fingers over his own temples and breathes. The familiar wash of a crackling blaze in his belly is warm when he focusses on it, the heat already wanting to spread through his body.</p><p class="p1">Carefully, he pulls a tendril of it up and towards his spine; up through the nerve paths there, towards his head. Inch by inch, he washes his magic through his upper back, his neck, and his shoulders. Then, even more gingerly, he calls a wave of his magic around his fingers and sets them over his temples, setting his fingers against his skin and pushing hard, hard enough to be painful.</p><p class="p1">“Breathe, Neal,” he hears Sir Alanna say from a distance, her voice calm and level. Obediently, he breathes out and then in again, keeping the wave of magic around his temples and up through his neck and shoulders and ears steady.</p><p class="p1">Of their own accord, he feels his shoulders relax.</p><p class="p1">Neal sighs. “So mote it be.”</p><p class="p1">The excess magic falls, spilling back down his spine, spilling back through his hands into his core, and Neal opens his eyes.</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna’s eyes are cool and considering; her mouth is level, unreadable. He has no idea what she’s thinking. But on the bright side, his head no longer hurts.</p><p class="p1">“Better?” she asks, and he nods. “Good. Now try me.”</p><p class="p1">Perhaps he <em>is</em> naturally lazy, because his first impulse is to complain about the five feet of distance that he has to traverse, before he can do that.</p><p class="p1">He manages to keep from saying anything, though. Kel wouldn’t complain in this position, and Neal owes it to her to make the best of this, as much as he can. So he stands and walks to Sir Alanna’s divan, crouching in front of her and takes her proffered hand in his.</p><p class="p1">He hadn’t realised how much smaller her hand would be than his, he notes, with a feeling of bemusement. It feels very <em>odd</em> somehow, to be bigger than his knight-mistress, even in terms of mere physical size.</p><p class="p1">Focus, Queenscove. “Excuse me, Sir.” He barely hears Sir Alanna’s snort, as he slips back into his core. It is faster without the pain in his head to distract him; he draws a wave up and out through his arms as he reaches for Sir Alanna’s body.</p><p class="p1">There is an ache in her knees, and a twinge in her neck, too; Neal sends a gentle pulse through each pain, alleviating both, before searching up towards her throat.</p><p class="p1">Ah. There, in her larynx, a mild inflammation and a scratchy, irritated inflammation through her vocal folds. Neal sets his mind to soothing, to swelling fading and red tissue fading to a healthy pink, as he draws another wave of magic out, gently feeding it into Sir Alanna’s body.</p><p class="p1">The inflammation is stubborn, at first, to his surprise; it sticks, refusing to budge. Neal purses his lips and pulls another wave of magic out, firmly, smoothly and feeds it in again. Not hastily; not quickly. Slow, but inexorable, like the movement of water.</p><p class="p1">Still there. Neal grits his teeth and takes another deep breath. Once more, with feeling.</p><p class="p1">The inflammation wavers and then fades, redness fading swiftly, the irritated spot of tissue diminishing, diminishing and then gone.</p><p class="p1">“Breathe in for me, please?” Neal asks, and Sir Alanna obliges. Neal listens carefully. But no, there is nothing he can hear in Sir Alanna’s airways or lungs, nothing that would reintroduce the problem if not addressed immediately. Excellent. “Do you feel better?” The physical causes of pain are gone, but Eleni of Olau had taken them on a few interesting cases where the patient’s <em>sensations</em> of pain lingered well after the physical causes for the pain had been addressed.</p><p class="p1">“I do, yes,” Sir Alanna says.</p><p class="p1">That’s that, then. Neal lets go of her hand and drops his hands to his side, deliberately focussing on the balls of his toes in their stockings against the wooden floor. He takes another breath and then stands, unfolding from the crouching position.</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna is looking at him, with that unnervingly intent purple gaze again. “You’ve got excellent control. You only had two years at the University?”</p><p class="p1">Neal shrugs. “Two years, yes. I like to think I picked a few things up from my father, even before that.”</p><p class="p1">“He took you on rounds with him?”</p><p class="p1">“Observing only,” Neal says hastily. “But he started teaching me meditation breathing as soon as he discovered I had the Gift too.”</p><p class="p1">Something flashes across Sir Alanna’s face, something pained and wistful. “You must have enjoyed that.”</p><p class="p1">“Ah. Well,” he stalls. He hadn’t, at all; his parents had had to endure two weeks of prolonged tantrums about hoe he wanted to learn <em>proper</em> magic, before he had finally given up.</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna gives him a dry, unimpressed look.</p><p class="p1">Neal can’t help but feel a little stung by it. It’s hardly the first time one of his teachers have given him a look like that, of course. But normally, it comes when he is <em>trying</em> to be aggravating or insolent. Not when he’s actually doing his best to play nicely.</p><p class="p1">“Not so much, I take it,” she says. She clears her throat. “Well. Your control is excellent, but your speed could use some work. How much practice have you actually gotten, in the last four years?”</p><p class="p1">Neal looks away, uncomfortable. “Bruises on my friends, mostly, and the occasional sniffle. Not much practice, really. What with the St- Lord Wyldon being the only one who can approve healings.”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna raises her eyebrows. “What did you say?”</p><p class="p1">Oops. “I said, since Lord Wyldon–”</p><p class="p1">“Neal.” The Lioness’ tone brooks no argument. “What were you about to say, <em>before</em> you stopped yourself?”</p><p class="p1">Kel was right. His inability to keep his mouth shut is going to get him killed. Possibly imminently.</p><p class="p1">Neal stares at the rug over the flag-stones. It’s actually very pretty; black horses running in concentric circles over a red field. Is it K’miri style, maybe?</p><p class="p1">“Squire Nealan.”</p><p class="p1">Oh, <em>fine!</em></p><p class="p1">“I call him the Stump,” he says, looking up at her. Her eyes are hard, but there is a faint furrow in her forehead. Almost as though she is confused, not just angry. “I started in my first year. He just never moved, never bended for <em>anything</em>. And I argued with him, all the time, but he would never give an inch, on anything. So…the Stump. Like a tree stump. He’s about as inflexible, or so I used to think.” He grimaces. “And now it’s habit.”</p><p class="p1">There’s a hint of a smile playing about Sir Alanna’s mouth. That’s no surprise, though. Even before the argument over Kel’s probation, the Lioness and the Stump were always at loggerheads, politically. </p><p class="p1">“Don’t let me catch you saying that again, squire,” she says. The words are reprimanding, but her tone is very blithe, and there’s a subtle emphasis on the fourth word. “After all, the King’s Champion can’t encourage her squire to call senior nobles derogatory names.”</p><p class="p1">That’s…better than a haranguing, Neal supposes. She seems oblivious to the fact that Neal feels a fair amount of grudging respect for the Stump, these days, but he can live with that.</p><p class="p1">“Clearly, sir,” Neal says, realising as he says it that he has not quite kept the dryness out of his voice..</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna smiles again. “As I was saying. You’ve retained a lot, but your theory far outstrips your practical skills at the moment. I want to keep you on sniffles, bruises, minor irritations, headaches and suchlike, until you get very good at those. Then I’ll move you up to the harder stuff.</p><p class="p1">“The next time we get called out to handle something and someone gets injured, you’ll observe me and any other healers and help with non-magical assistance; dressing wounds, disinfecting, bandaging, administering medicines and so on. I’m going to teach you at least one new tea every day, in the evenings. We’ll build on what you already know. Did they teach you any thread magic at the University?”</p><p class="p1">“We were just about to start when the barriers fell and they had to suspend classes,” Neal says.</p><p class="p1">“Then I’ll teach you the rudiments of that, too. I’m not the best at it - I can name three mages who are better at it than me, and your father’s one of them - so I’ll see who I can impress into giving you a good foundation in that. Later. But I can get you started,” Sir Alanna decides, with a nod.</p><p class="p1">“Um, Sir?”</p><p class="p1">“Mm?”</p><p class="p1">“When you said ‘handle something’, earlier – what does that look like?”</p><p class="p1">“Hmm.” Sir Alanna lifts one hand, and raises her forefinger. “Immortals, obviously, especially giants, or ogres, or spidren colonies. Anything that looks like it’s going to be hairy. Not alone, obviously. I often work with a Rider group or two for those. They upped the group strengths in the last half of the Immortals’ war – each group has a minimum of nine Riders, these days, so we can handle quite a lot of fast-appearing problems.</p><p class="p1">“Then bandits, highwaymen, outlaws, if any happen to be near me. Jon and I keep in touch by spell-mirror, and the Rider commanders keep in touch with each other using their own methods. If I’m in the area, I liaise with them and help out where I can. Same for any of the Own or regular Army that’s near-by.”</p><p class="p1">So that’s how the Riders can stay out between postings for so long at a time. But Neal can’t linger on that revelation, because his knight-mistress is already ticking off another item. “Any noble contesting the Crown’s judgement, obviously. Since a noble can’t actually be forced out of their estates by the Crown under Tortallan law, the Champion has to go to them.However, since they issue the challenge, I’m allowed choice of weapons each time, so they don’t have that much of an advantage.”</p><p class="p1">“How often does that happen?”</p><p class="p1">“It depends. Right now, there’s been a dry spell; I think the last time would have been four years ago. But those challenges are only for when a noble is actually being charged with something and they know that they’ll lose in a court of law. And it only really becomes relevant when the noble is being charged with something like gross malfeasance, embezzlement or treason. Those tend to be the most common reasons, anyway.” Sir Alanna tilts her head to the side. “Now that I think about it, there may be a few more coming next year, and the year after that. I’ll be surprised if the census doesn’t turn up a few things people wish would stay hidden.”</p><p class="p1">“There’s a census coming up?”</p><p class="p1">“On the Grand Progress. Gary’s going to take a full complement of his staff with them,” Sir Alanna says, with a sharp grin. “Think scent hounds, but they wear a clerk’s uniform and they sniff out embezzlement and fraud. They’ll turn up work for us to do in that quarter, don’t doubt it. Speaking of work-” she reaches over for her mug and gulps the remainder of her tea. “Now that we’ve established a baseline for your healing work, we need to do the same thing for your weapons training as well. Oh, and after that, I’d like to review your kit, make sure there’s nothing missing. So you’d best get your boots on.”</p><p class="p1">Neal has a sinking feeling in his gut about how this is going to go. “Gods help me,” he mutters, as he grabs for his boots.</p><p class="p1">“What was that?”</p><p class="p1">“Nothing!”</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p3">* * * * * * * * * * </p><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p1">The wooden floors of the indoor practice courts are coated with sand. This is the only thing that is making Neal’s current state of existence even a little bearable.</p><p class="p1">…Well, that, and the fact that they had started with a proper stretching routine and hand-to-hand before she started testing his sword-work. Without that, his body would probably be an even larger bruise. As it is: Neal’s shoulders are aching, his ankles are twinging and his right hand is stiff to the point of cramping.</p><p class="p1">The <em>shrring</em> of Sir Alanna sheathing her sword makes him look up with relief.</p><p class="p1">“Not bad, squire,” she comments, as he reaches for the pommel of his own blade. It had been sent flying after she had gotten inside and <em>under</em> his guard somehow, drawing their fifth and final practice bout to a close. Each time, the Lioness had moved with a swift, practiced grace that made Neal suspect she had been controlling the bouts all along.</p><p class="p1">“Not bad?” Neal croaks. His throat is very dry. He sits up, somehow, and accepts the water-skin that Sir Alanna offers him.</p><p class="p1">“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Sir Alanna says, but her tone takes any sting out of the chiding. “Your footwork is quite good, and so is your speed and your fluidity. You drill a lot?”</p><p class="p1">Neal swallows a mouthful of blessedly cool water. “Every day, in the evenings.” Well, since his hiatus ended, at least. But Neal is not going to mention that to the Lioness, not when she can probably guess it. He gulps down another mouthful and then offers the water-skin back to her.</p><p class="p1">“In the evenings?” Sir Alanna’s fingers drum on the hilt of her sword for a moment. Then she shrugs. “While we’re in Corus, that’s fine. If we’re on the road, you probably won’t get that luxury; if you get time to practice, it’ll most likely be in the morning.”</p><p class="p1">Damn. But he really had guessed that was coming, anyway, so Neal bows his head. “Yessir.”</p><p class="p1">“That’s an ‘if’, not a ‘when’, too,” Sir Alanna adds. Neal gets to his feet. “Your practice time is something that you need to carve out for yourself as a knight. Even while I’m teaching you, I’m not going to be able to chase you. And if you haven’t been practicing, the odds of it being <em>you</em> who loses your neck and not your enemy increase dramatically.”</p><p class="p1">Neal sighs. “I know, sir.” He’d taken his weapons training much more seriously since the summer with the Battle of the Cliff.</p><p class="p1">“Good. Then don’t forget it,” she says, her manner brisk and efficient once more. “Do you use the Naxen fencing manual?”</p><p class="p1">Neal tries to think. “Um. I think my first tutors used it when they were teaching me? I don’t know what Sergeant Ezeko and Lord Wyldon use, though.”</p><p class="p1">“No matter, I’ll ask Cavall later.”</p><p class="p1">Neal thinks about the prospect of the Lioness appearing as Lord Wyldon’s guest at the high table in the mess hall and tries to suppress a grin. “Of course, my lady.”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna stares at him for a moment, and then snorts, shaking her head. “Imp. So, that’s your sword-work. How are you with a lance?”</p><p class="p1">Neal thinks. “Passable, my lady.”</p><p class="p1">“Then I can’t do much for you with that. I’ll have to recruit someone else,” she runs a hand through her hair. “Axe-work? Archery?”</p><p class="p1">“Decent with an axe, much better with a bow.”</p><p class="p1">“The axe-work I can do something about. I’m glad to hear about the archery; you’ll be hunting quite a bit, riding with me.” Sir Alanna drums her fingers on her sword hilt again. “Right then. You go clean up, and I’ll see you after lunch. I need to make a list of everything we need to get for your kit tomorrow, and make a plan.”</p><p class="p1">“Yessir,” Neal says, dutifully. Then he blinks, as he realises he has switched the honourifics again. He…should probably stop doing that, shouldn’t he? “Ah – do you have a preference?”</p><p class="p1">“For what, Neal?”</p><p class="p1">“Being ‘sir’ or ‘my lady’,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’ve been using them interchangeably.”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna shakes her head. “I don’t mind either.But if you want to stick to one rather than the other, use ‘sir.’ Better for military settings.”</p><p class="p1">“Yessir,” Neal says promptly.</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna makes a shooing gesture. “Be off with you, Queenscove.”</p><p class="p1">Neal sketches a quick bow and gets going. Before she can change her mind and decide to thrash him again.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">* * * * * * * * * * </p><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p1">For as long as Neal can remember, the baseline state of Palace Way has been “crowded.” But today the street seems to be quiet – quieter than it could be, at least –for which he gives silent thanks to the Goddess. Even a cart-horse can spook in a tightly-packed street, let alone a destrier. But so far, Magewhisper is trotting smoothly beside Darkmoon, unperturbed by how they are riding in very close formation.</p><p class="p1">The foot traffic spills around them like water around an obstacle; from up ahead, Neal can hear a pack of maids dressed in household livery laughing and bickering, a baby fussing. The rapid footsteps of messenger runners, a drover cursing at his mules, and a soldier bellowing.</p><p class="p1">In a strange way, the noise is comforting, bracing. The city’s cacophony is never going to be melodious, but it is unshakeably, unmistakably <em>alive, </em>still here with its merry, chaotic roar<em>.</em></p><p class="p1">The eeriest part of the Immortals’ War had always been the unnatural silence hanging over Corus.</p><p class="p1">Neal shakes his head forcefully at the thought. The war is four years gone, and that’s how it should stay. There’s no need to go back over bad memories. </p><p class="p1">He pitches his voice to carry over the street to Sir Alanna. “So where are we going?”</p><p class="p1">He knows where they’re going. Of course he knows. Every knight-master taking a squire has two immediate obligations, before anything else: providing a horse and providing armour. They’ve already done the horse, so the armour is next on the list, even before the Lioness can send Neal to deal with the sniffles. Ergo: they’re heading out to an armoury, to fill in the missing bits of his weapons-kit.</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna opens her mouth to answer and pauses, coming to attention. She stands in her stirrups, scanning the street and then pales, as her gaze locks on something to the west.</p><p class="p1">Neal follows her eyes to a woman in the crowd. Black hair hangs limply against a thin, terrified face, and the baby sling wrapped around her front is empty, even as she turns and looks wildly from north to south, from east to west. Looking for something. Someone?</p><p class="p1"><em>…Oh, </em>no<em>.</em></p><p class="p1">“Stop. Stop <em>now</em>,” Sir Alanna says, but Neal is already reining Magewhisper to a halt, a knot of tension suddenly in his stomach. A crowded street is no place for a stray toddler. “Dismount. Look out for the child.”</p><p class="p1">Neal collects Magewhisper's reins in one hand as he kneels, the better to see at a child’s level. He scans the bewildering forest of breeches and skirts, before movement in the corner of his right eye makes him turn.</p><p class="p1">There. Darting towards them, dodging around skirts and underneath legs, comes the fugitive toddler. Neal is not sure whether they are a boy or a girl, but whatever sex the child is, they have an expression of glee on their face that is terrifying and, oddly, a little funny. He’s never seen anyone look so <em>happy</em> about being in mortal danger. </p><p class="p1">“Found him, sir!”</p><p class="p1">“Thank the Goddess.” Sir Alanna crouches beside him, purple fire already sparkling in her hand. The fire resolves into a single gleaming thread of magic, weaving through the remaining people in between the toddler and them, until it reaches the toddler. The child looks at the shining string, and, with another giggle, grabs for it.</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna grunts, pinches her thumb and forefinger together and pulls. “Gotcha.”</p><p class="p1">The shining thread tugs the toddler through one pair of legs, and around another woman’s skirts; Sir Alanna’s eyes are narrowed in fierce concentration, as she tugs this way and that, guiding the child through the crowd until the child is close enough for Neal to reach out, scoop him up, and pass him to Sir Alanna's expectant hands.</p><p class="p1">“Neal, go tell the mother that we’ve found her. I’ll stay with her and the horses. Are you alright, little one? That was quite the mischief.” The knight’s hands are already busy: one moving over the child’s body, testing for injuries, even as the other gathers a ball of magic and sets it to spinning.</p><p class="p1">Neal swings back into Magewhisper’s saddle and scans the crowd. There, about thirty yards down the road; the mother is pleading with a man wearing a soldier’s baldric. There are tears shining on her too-thin face, as the soldier shake her hands off his arm roughly.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Too many people to just shout. How can I get her attention?</em>
</p><p class="p1">Wait. Attention.</p><p class="p1"><em>In magic, the thought is the deed</em>.</p><p class="p1">Neal narrows his eyes at the distressed mother, and moves his right hand in the first two components of his childhood notice-me-not charm, deliberately <em>omitting</em> the rune for negation. Then he moves his left hand over his right, draws his arm back, and <em>aims</em> at her, just as he’d aim a thrown spear.</p><p class="p1">Dark green magic glitters in a whip-thin tendril, arcing through the air to land on the mother’s shoulder, connecting with the fabric of her baby sling. Neal pulls on the rope of magic and winces as the mother is <em>yanked</em> around, rather than tugged.</p><p class="p1">Her face is fearful and strained, and Neal suddenly notices, across the distance, that her right eye is a little glassy.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Oh, no wonder.</em>
</p><p class="p1">First things first. He cups his hands around his mouth, and shouts: “It’s alright! We have your little one!”<br/>
<br/>
Even as he slips his feet out of the stirrups and dismounts, Neal can see the way the woman blanches.</p><p class="p1">…Apparently, the child being scooped up by the two nobles on the street is <em>not</em> a reassuring prospect.</p><p class="p1">Neal swears under his breath, quietly and viciously, as he weaves through the crowd, wishing death by disembowelment by stormwings on avaricious Tortallan lords, and petty noblewomen, and obsequious guards and soldiers and merchants and – and too many people who just don’t<em> care.</em> Too many people who seem to look at <em>people</em> as though they’re just so much ugly furniture, inconveniences to the nobility’s comfort and luxury.</p><p class="p1">Too <em>damn</em> many.</p><p class="p1">A sudden motion – flinching?– draws him from his raging thoughts. Neal blinks at the terrified face, at the glassy tint to the pupil of the right eye.</p><p class="p1">He’s face-to-face with the mother already, and his rage is showing.</p><p class="p1">And she has no way to know that it <em>isn’t</em> directed at her.</p><p class="p1">Neal takes a deep breath in and speaks on the exhale. “It’s alright,” he tells her, as gently as he can. “It’s alright, mistress. I didn’t mean to startle you. Come with me, please. My knight-mistress is checking your little one over now.”</p><p class="p1">“I’m so sorry,” the poor woman says, and when Neal offers her his arm, she doesn’t even seem to register the movement. She’s too panicked. “I’m so sorry, sir, meaning no trouble or disrespect– she’s just at <em>that age</em>, and my eyes aren’t as good as they used to be–”</p><p class="p1">“I can see that. And there’s no need to call me sir. My name is Neal,” Neal says, gentling his voice even as he cuts through the babble. Moving slowly, telegraphing the movement, he slides his arm through the woman’s. “No need to apologise, either. My little sister was the same way.”</p><p class="p1">Granted, Jessamine had never been able to run off like that, not when she and Neal had always walked down the street bracketed and handheld by Graeme and Cathal. But there’s no need to tell the woman that, especially when Neal can feel some of the tension fading out of her arm. He keeps talking as he starts to lead her through the crowd, around the knot of maids chatting up a vendor.</p><p class="p1">“I’m not fully trained yet, but it looks like you’ve been having some trouble for a while. It’s your right eye, isn’t it?”</p><p class="p1">The woman’s next inhale finally exceeds two seconds. “Yes, sir. Past two years. I’ve gotten to the temple hospital nearest to me a few times, but the healers are always busy, and I don’t have enough time to wait for them to be free.”</p><p class="p1">Neal frowns. “Surely they have a waitlist?” The woman shoots him a look full of confusion. “A list for them to keep track of everyone who hasn’t been treated. You write down your name, and where they can find you, and what your complaint is.”</p><p class="p1">The woman looks away. “I can’t write.”</p><p class="p1">“And no-one at the temple could help you with it?” Neal asks, incredulous. Literacy is a minimal requirement for the priesthood, and keeping track of a patient’s<em> name</em> is surely a minimum requirement in patient care. How the hell have both of those things been missed?</p><p class="p1">“It’s not my fault everyone’s always busy!” she retorts, as Neal leads them both around the drovers, and there is considerable spirit in her voice.</p><p class="p1">“I don’t think it <em>is</em> your fault,” Neal says, a little offended. “I think its theirs. Which temple do you go to?”</p><p class="p1">“Mother of Mares,” the woman mutters, as they dodge around the housemaids. “South side of the Lower City, towards the Common.”</p><p class="p1">That…makes an unfortunate amount of sense, Neal has to admit. It’s not unlikely that their Temple, one of the precious few situated in and around the Lower City, is already past their capacity, and under-staffed. The Immortals’ War has taken out <em>so</em> much of Tortall’s magical strength.</p><p class="p1"><em>So how do you fix </em> <span class="s2"> <em>that,</em> </span> <em> Queenscove?</em></p><p class="p1">Finally, <em>finally</em>, they cross the distance, and come to where Sir Alanna is leaning against Darkmoon’s shoulder. She is pulling faces at the toddler, grinning every time she elicits a giggle from the baby.</p><p class="p1">“At last, squire,” she says cheerfully, before Neal can even open his mouth. She pulls one last face at the baby, before pivoting to face them and offering the child to the woman. “Here you go, mistress.”</p><p class="p1">“Thank you, sir,” the woman says, utter relief washing across her face. “Thank you.” The child lets loose an angry cry, reaching out for the ball of magic, which is dissipating out of Alanna’s hand. “Shhh! Enough mischief out of you for one day, Clary!”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna’s smile only widens. “Mine were exactly the same at that age, mistress…”</p><p class="p1">“Senna,” the woman says, even as she glares down at the toddler. The expression can’t disguise the layer of tears glimmering in her eyes.</p><p class="p1">“Good to meet you, Mistress Senna.My name is Alanna. I couldn’t help but notice - has your eye been giving you trouble?”</p><p class="p1">“Squire Neal asked me the same thing,” Senna says, a little distracted, as she starts swaying from side-to-side, trying to soothe the baby toddler back to quiet. “A couple of years now, really.”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna makes a quiet thoughtful noise. “You haven’t been able to get treatment?” Senna shakes her head, in between making shushing noises at the baby. “I’m a healer. If you like, I could take a look at it.”</p><p class="p1">The woman looks up, her eyes suddenly wide as full moons. “Sir-” her voice cuts off abruptly as she scans Alanna up and down, and Neal can see the exact moment when she realises that she’s talking to the Lioness. “My lady!”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna sighs, shaking her head. “No. Well, yes. I’m Sir Alanna. But if you’ve heard about me, surely you’ve heard that I’m a healer.”</p><p class="p1">“Well, yes, milady,” Senna says. Suddenly, her hold around her baby is relaxed; her stance is widening, opening up. Clearly, whatever she’s heard about the Lioness, it means that she is <em>safe</em>. “But - but you fight monsters and pirates and <em>giants</em>, surely you don’t have time–”</p><p class="p1">“The only place I have to be today is an armoury, and I’m sure that will still be there if I stop to treat you,” Sir Alanna interrupts. She is frowning, but her voice is almost gentle.</p><p class="p1">Senna hesitates. Too awed by coming face to face with a legend to argue with the Lioness - and, perhaps, rather disconcerted - maybe even frightened - by the idea of that legend touching her life.</p><p class="p1">Neal decides to add his voice to the mix. He scratches the back of his neck, doing his best to fake embarrassment. Who knows if it will work, but it probably won’t <em>hurt</em>.</p><p class="p1">“Really, you’d be doing us a favour, Mistress,” he says. “Sir Alanna’s supposed to be teaching me healing, you see, and…well, she says I’ve got a <em>long</em> way to go.” He winces theatrically. “If I can watch her treat you, I’ll be one step closer.”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna’s glance at him contains something suspiciously like approval. Neal manages, just barely, to suppress his smile, as a look of hesitation grows on the woman’s face.</p><p class="p1">“Well…I suppose if it’s not <em>really</em> an imposition, my lady…” she says, slowly.</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna grins. “Far from it, Mistress,” she says, her manner all cheerful briskness once more. “And I know a place not far from here where we can sit down and take a look at it. Neal, lead the horses.”</p><p class="p1">She hasn’t even finished speaking before she sets a hand on Senna’ shoulder and starts guiding her through the crowd. Neal gathers the horses’ reins in one hand and sets off after them.</p><p class="p1">He’s never seen cataracts treated before. This should be interesting.</p><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p3">* * * * * * * * * * </p><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p1"><em>A place not far from here</em> turns out to be his own family’s townhouse.</p><p class="p1">In retrospect, this makes perfect sense. Alanna has been very good friends with both his parents for almost twenty years, and the Queenscove townhouse is <em>stunningly</em> close to the Palace, which means very, very close to the place where Senna had lost her toddler.</p><p class="p1">But it feels a little strange to greet the men-at-arms at the gate with the Lioness at his back. He feels awkward, strange, even as Sir Alanna firmly soothes Senna, who is protesting that a noble’s house is surely not the place for <em>her</em>.</p><p class="p1">How is he supposed to behave? Ordinarily, he’d simply let the guardsmen wave him in, responding to Warric’s playful jibes and giving sarcastic reassurance to Symric’s perpetually impassive face and worried eyes. But he isn’t just Neal, son of the Duchy of Queenscove, right now. He is <em>Squire</em> Neal now, assigned to his knight-mistress, and she just <em>happens</em> to be visiting his family’s townhouse, with him, a less-than-prosperous city woman, and the city woman’s toddler. Is he supposed to let Sir Alanna take the lead, as her squire? Or is he supposed to go and smooth the way for her, as the son of her not-in-residence hosts?</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna resolves the dilemma for him before he can come to a decision. She cheerfully waves at Symric and Warric, whose stances don’t shift so much as an <em>inch</em>. “Need a space to see to a patient. Just need to borrow some good light and a quiet room. Are either of their Graces in?”</p><p class="p1">“Her Grace should be back in the afternoon, I think,” Symric says, his expression dead level, even as Warric opens the gate. “Will you need anything?”</p><p class="p1">“No, we’ll be right. Thank you, though,” Sir Alanna says. “Neal, don’t worry about stabling the horses, but do hitch them somewhere out of the way, and loosen their tack. Meet me in the solar.”</p><p class="p1">And with that – and with a noticeable absence of any need for, say, directions to that incredibly specific location in the house, she’s off again, making a beeline for the little path that curls around the left side of the house to lead to the discreet side-entrance to the kitchens which the servants use.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>How does she know the house this well?</em>
</p><p class="p1">He doesn’t remember Sir Alanna visiting any more frequently than occasionally when he was a child. But she hadn’t even hesitated before choosing the servants’ door to the kitchens – which, in their family, has always doubled as the <em>family</em> entrance.</p><p class="p1">(His father is normally too tired to bother with waiting for a servant to open the front door; his mother is far too impatient; and nobody had even tried to stop him or his siblings from picking it up after that.)</p><p class="p1">“Continuing family traditions, I see, Master Neal,” comes a cheerful voice to his left.</p><p class="p1">Neal glances over to see Warric grinning at him, as he takes Darkmoon’s reins out of Neal’s far-too-relaxed grip.</p><p class="p1">“You’ve lost me, Warric,” Neal says, making a ‘give me’ motion with his hand as he says it and punctuating it with a stern frown.</p><p class="p1">It’s unlikely to work on Warric, because the man has rescued a two-year old Neal from any number of potential concussions, scrapes, bruises, and traumatic brain injuries. But it’s worth a shot, and looking after Sir Alanna’s horse is supposed to <em>Neal’s</em> job now.</p><p class="p1">“Just standing there in the courtyard like that, a frown on your face and half-talking to yourself. Her Grace does the exact same thing. Always has,” Warric explains cheerfully. He pointedly does not relinquish Darkmoon’s reins.</p><p class="p1">Neal gives up on that score and leads Magewhisper over to one of the several hitching posts lined up against the property’s inner wall. Unless the Kingdom goes to war in the next two hours – which is, admittedly, always possible, if not probable – they probably won’t need to have more than two posts free for royal messengers.</p><p class="p1">“And here I thought you meant the tradition of dragging patients home,” Neal retorts. </p><p class="p1">“Well, that too,” Warric admits, as Neal loosens Magewhisper’s girth and scratches her forelock. She lips at his shoulder, and he spares a grin for her before he turns to Darkmoon.</p><p class="p1">The gelding is – of <em>course</em> he is – already tethered, his girth already loosened.</p><p class="p1">Neal sighs. “I don’t suppose it’ll do any good to remind you that it’s supposed to be my job to do that?”</p><p class="p1">“Not a bit of it,” Warric says cheerfully. “Specially sinceI won’t be there to do it tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day after that. And don’t you have to look at the patient you and Sir Alanna brought in, anyway?”</p><p class="p1">There’s no arguing with that logic, or with the man who has helped look after Neal for as long as he’s been alive. Neal shakes his head and walks across the courtyard to the kitchen entrance.</p><p class="p1">Warric’s right. For the first time in several years, Neal has a patient to see.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">* * * * * * * * * * </p><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p1">Neal slips into the solarium of the townhouse, bearing a tray of cups, steaming apple cider, and, for some reason which the housekeeper would <em>not</em> explain, a drop spindle half-covered with wool.</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna, Senna and the toddler are already seated. Well, Sir Alanna is, and so is Senna, with an expression that suggests she’s caught between awe and shock. By contrast, the toddler is happily giggling and trying to lurch from her mother’s lap to put her (somewhat grubby) hands over the upholstery of the couch; Senna appears to be holding her back by reflex, because her good eye is fixed on Sir Alanna with a disbelieving expression in it.</p><p class="p1">“I come bearing drinks,” Neal announces, setting the pitcher down onto the little tall table in the middle of the solarium, put there for just this purpose. Startling either Senna or Sir Alanna right now seems like a very bad idea. “And a spindle. I’m not sure why the spindle’s there.” </p><p class="p1">“Oh, that was my idea,” Sir Alanna says, immediately offering her left hand out for the spindle, as her right hand taps the toddler on the nose. “Look here, little one.”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna makes another flickering movement with her fingers – like claws flicking out – and several tendrils of purple magic sink into the mass of spun thread around the spindle and <em>change</em> the wool, leaving it purple and white and sparkling.</p><p class="p1">The sound the toddler makes is somewhere between approval and awe. Neal sympathises with the second emotion.</p><p class="p1">He can’t help himself. “<em>How</em> did you–”</p><p class="p1">“I’ll explain later,” Alanna says. “Although I’m sure your mother would explain it more elegantly. In a nutshell, think changing the <em>look</em> of the fabric, and you’ll get the idea.” She offers the now much-shinier, much more attractive spindle to the toddler, and grins as the child happily starts gumming along the thread. When the child tugs on it very hard, the thread changes to a golden colour, to a shriek of joyous laughter. “Right. That should keep her amused for a few minutes. Worst comes to worst, Senna, we’ll ask one of the maids to come in and help keep her occupied. Now, you told us earlier that your eyes had been giving you trouble for two years now, yes?”</p><p class="p1">Senna nods, looking a little relieved to have a simple, closed question to answer. “Yes, lady. Two years now.”</p><p class="p1">“Hmm.” Sir Alanna’s nod is thoughtful. “What can you see right now? How does the world look?”</p><p class="p1">Senna’ cheeks flush, and she can’t quite meet Sir Alanna’s eyes. “Blurry. I can’t see your face, my lady.”</p><p class="p1">“Does anything look yellow or brown?” Senna shakes her head. “No? Good.Does it affect you more on a bright day, or a cloudy day?”</p><p class="p1">In ten minutes, they get through two more questions. Alanna sends Neal to go get a maid, who cheerfully boosts Clary up onto her hip and starts a quiet game of peek-a-boo in the hallway outside. The patient history goes <em>remarkably</em> faster after that, and Neal finds himself very grateful that he’s long since mastered the art of drilling salient points into his head when he doesn’t have writing materials to hand.</p><p class="p1">Senna finds bright days almost unbearable; she can’t leave the house. She had Clary two and a half years ago; the trouble with her vision started halfway through her pregnancy. It started merely as blurriness, especially out of the corner of her right eye, but it worsened and worsened.</p><p class="p1">Before that, she used to knit and stitch lace; for about a year, she’s been selling flowers at one of the inns on the lower reaches of the Palace Way. She mentions this last fact with a bitter twist of her mouth, and a quiet, angry addition under her breath: “You don’t need to be able to <em>see</em> to do that, after all.”</p><p class="p1">Neal swallows, hearing the anger in her tone. He can’t blame her for that. Women of the night and flower sellers are respected in Tortall’s criminal world, but to almost everyone else, they are objects of contempt. It’s no accident that the most frequent insult hurled at Kel, even behind her back, was always some variation on <em>whore.</em></p><p class="p1">“Have you seen someone about it before?” Sir Alanna asks Senna gently.</p><p class="p1">Senna shakes her head, the movement tight and angry. “I live on my own, my lady. I don’t have any family in the city, they’re all back in Dunlath. I only met Clary’s father once. Getting someone I can trust to agree to watch Clary for the day so I could go across the city to Mother of Mares and back was hard the first time, let alone the second. And–” Sennaabruptly pales, as the sound of her tightly-leashed anger in her voice finally reaches her ears. “I’m sorry, my lady, I didn’t mean to–”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna holds up her hand, palm out, imperious. Her violet eyes are fierce. “<em>Hush,”</em> she orders, shaking her head. “I don’t blame you for being frustrated. <em>Anyone</em> would be frustrated, in your position. But I’m going to help you, Mistress Senna. And these questions are going to help me help you.”</p><p class="p1">Senna looks mortified. “Yes, my lady. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be difficult or rude–”</p><p class="p1">If Neal’s not much mistaken, the slightly stuffed look on Alanna’s face is her trying to suppress a sigh. “I know, Senna. It’s alright. Let’s just focus on getting you <em>better</em>. You said you used to work as a lacemaker, yes? Can you tell me a little more about that?”</p><p class="p1">“Oh, well. It’s delicate work, lace, as you’d know, my lady–”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna’s grin is rueful. “I wouldn’t. I know spinning and weaving, but I learned from the Bazhir. They don’t make lace.”</p><p class="p1">“They do some wonderful weaves, though. Tough and strong and light <em>and</em> warm, all in the one fabric. I <em>wish</em> I knew how they did it!” Senna says passionately, and suddenly, she is sporting a rueful smile to match Alanna’s. There’s something about that change in the interaction that’s very interesting, but Neal can’t quite put his finger on what it is, and Senna is still talking.</p><p class="p1">“But, well, making lace, it’s very delicate. Needle-lace is all tiny spaces and buttonhole stitches, my lady, and it takes <em>forever</em> to get through a piece, because it’s all so small and you’re forming the fabric as you go. And lace-knitting – for shawls and suchlike, milady – is tricky, too. It’s like the embroidery that most noblewomen do, in rooms like this one, my lady. The pretty sunlit ones. Lady Yolane had one like it, back in Dunlath before – well. Before everything.”</p><p class="p1">Senna has to turn her head, but the glance that she shoots at the large windows facing the south is definitely wistful and envious, and suddenly, the pieces of the puzzle come crashing together in Neal’s mind.</p><p class="p1">Because if a lacemaker from the Lower City <em>didn’t</em> have access to something like this solarium for her working conditions…</p><p class="p1">Alanna is frowning and then nodding. “Lots of time bent over, in a shadowy spot? Looking at a very small thing?”</p><p class="p1">“Exactly, milady. And I had to start very young – I think I was eight, when I started apprenticing under someone to learn it.”</p><p class="p1">“So you would normally have done work in a room like this one?” and Sir Alanna’s voice is still light, but her eyes are suddenly narrowed in fierce concentration, like a hound who’s just caught the scent. “Very airy and light-filled?”</p><p class="p1">“Yes, milady,” Senna says. “But, well, you know what happened to Lady Yolane. And Lady Maura isn’t as much a one for trimmings on her gowns, and the ogres and the wolves, Dunlath became…so <em>strange, </em>milady. So I thought I’d come try my luck in Corus.</p><p class="p1">“It wasn’t so good, it turns out. When I got here, the Weavers’ Guild said they wouldn’t take on any new apprentices from outside of Corus. Not someone who couldn’t pay guild-price, and they said that neither needle-lace nor lace-knitting wasn’t weaving, anyway. So I took a corner in a little shop on Koskynen Street. The light wasn’t anywhere near as good – it took a while before I stopped making silly mistakes with my needle-lace.”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna’s nod is decisive, even as something sad filters through her expression. “Yes, all of that fits. I’m sorry it’s been so hard on you, Senna. But I think I know what’s happened to your eye.</p><p class="p1">“I’m going to have to examine you magically to be sure, but it sounds like you have a particular kind of cataract. ‘Cataract’ is just healer talk for when the lens inside your eye,” she points to her own pupil, “becomes cloudy. Sometimes the soft tissue inside the eye, which is a bit like little fibres, bunch together – like when thread bunches together – and it makes it hard for light to pass through the lens. That’s what creates the cloud.”</p><p class="p1">“…You’ve lost me, my lady,” Senna says, shaking her head, with a very bewildered expression. “Thread in my eye?”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna waves a hand, grinning. “Never mind the technical bits – they’re more important for Neal than for you. The point is, I think I know what’s wrong with your eye. And I’ll need to examine you to be certain, but I strongly suspect it’s fixable.”</p><p class="p1">Senna’ eyes, both of them, clear and cloudy alike, go suddenly, painfully wide with hope. “<em>Truly</em>?”</p><p class="p1">“I think so,” Alanna says. She lifts her hand to Senna’ temple. “May I?”</p><p class="p1">“I – yes, of course,” Senna stammers.</p><p class="p1">“Thank you. Neal, you should come take a look at this as well, with Senna’ permission.” Neal tilts his head inquiringly at Senna, and she gives a small, shell-shocked nod.</p><p class="p1">There’s another question for crusty old Calvard to answer – if your patient is overwhelmed by their diagnosis – or by the news that their condition might actually be curable – can any assent they give qualify as informed consent?</p><p class="p1">It seems good enough for Sir Alanna. And, on reflection, there are worse things to be shocked by than hope. So Neal sets his hand on Senna’ other temple and slips inside.</p><p class="p1">Ah. There it is. And <em>bright Mithros above</em>.</p><p class="p1">From the outside, Senna’ eye had looked cloudy. Like a cataract, to be sure, but impossible to tell more than that at a glance. From the inside, it looks so, so much worse. Tiny white lines are crisscrossing across the lower half of the lens, while on the top and towards the rightmost extreme, there is a tiny shape that looks like a billowing cloud.</p><p class="p1"><em>No wonder she has practically no peripheral vision.</em> In another year’s time, assuming she still couldn’t get treatment, she probably would have had no sight in that eye at all.</p><p class="p1">From far away, Alanna says, “So mote it be,” and Neal takes his cue and obediently slips back out again.</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna looks sad and relieved, at the same time. “I’m going to have words with Mother of Mares, after all of this is done, I think,” she says, her voice sounding distant. “Your eye should have been treated a long time ago.”</p><p class="p1">“But – but <em>now</em>?” Senna asks, desperate hope in her voice. “My lady? Is it – it’s not too late?”</p><p class="p1">“Oh, gods, no,” Sir Alanna said, giving herself a quick, fierce shake. Her smile at Senna is small, but very real. “It’s absolutely not too late. What you have is treatable. Very easily, actually. It’ll tickle some, but it shouldn’t take more than…ten minutes. You’ll need to stay here for an hour or so, let us keep an eye on you, and then after that, you should take things as easy as you can for the next couple of days. But it can be done. Neal, would you draw, hm, half the blinds closed?”</p><p class="p1">Neal obeys, carefully drawing the easternmost blinds shut. They won’t need that much light to do this by, and the muted level of light will help prevent Senna’s eyes from being overwhelmed when she opens them again.</p><p class="p1">“Much better. Thank you, Neal.” Sir Alanna pauses. “Senna? Are you alright?”</p><p class="p1">Senna’s voice cracks, and as Neal crouches down directly opposite her, next to Alanna, he can see tear trails on her face. “You mean – you mean I’ll get to see again?”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna’s reply is gentle. “Yes. If this goes right, Senna – and this treatment usually does – you will get to see again. Are you ready?”</p><p class="p1">“Oh, Goddess. <em>Yes,</em> please, my lady.” Senna’s voice is fierce and tearful, all at once, and Neal isn’t sure whether he wants to cry with the relief he hears in her tone, or laugh with a fierce, rushing happiness. </p><p class="p1">“Then hold still, and close your eyes,” the Lioness says. Violet fire glitters as she brings her hand to Senna’s eyes. “Neal, with me.” Neal gets, his hands already shimmering with magic as he copies his mentor, and sets his hand on her neck, slipping inside Senna’s body.</p><p class="p1">There is the cataract, there again. And then Sir Alanna’s gift curls into the cataract and seems to…<em>seep</em> through it, almost. Tendril after tendril shimmering at the edges of the white lines, and the billowy cloudy mass, and the cataract – starts to fade.</p><p class="p1"><em>She’s dissolving it,</em> Neal realises, and an aching sense of wonder overtakes him. <em>The fibres hardened when they clumped together – so she’s manipulating her magic, using it like fluid, to soak and dissolve them.</em></p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna’s gift curls around more and more of the opacities. They splinter, segmenting apart into irregular-looking, spiky fractions. Then fractions turn into <em>fragments</em>, smaller and spikier still, and fragments becomes specks, tiny dots and spots over the lens, and Sir Alanna’s violet magic sweeps over them like a great wave, once, twice, three times, subsuming the specks entirely. </p><p class="p1">Then her magic pulls back, unveiling the lens. And it’s <em>clear</em>.</p><p class="p1">That was fast, Neal thinks, a little flabbergasted. Which – isn’t unusual. It’s a relatively simple problem, and the biomechanics for fixing it are rather simple. But in a way, it makes the situation all the stranger. That a woman could be burdened with a condition that turned her life upside-down for two years, when that condition could be successfully treated in <em>less than five minutes.</em></p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna’s Gift slides across the eye one more time, probing and assessing, before that bright, fiery presence – retreats. Neal takes his cue and withdraws his hand and his own magic from Senna’s body.</p><p class="p1">Senna looks <em>exhausted, </em>he notes. Exhausted, giddy and frightened, all at once, and her eyes are <em>open</em>. Unfocussed, not looking at anything in particular – but both lenses are clear.</p><p class="p1">Neal can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face, or the fierce feeling of triumph in his veins. </p><p class="p1">“Rest here for a little while. Don’t try to go home just yet,” Sir Alanna says, very softly. “It’s going to take a couple of hours for your vision to readjust. Things might still be a little blurry in your right eye for the next couple of days, but it will get better. Don’t worry about the lady of the house – I’ll speak to her. She’ll understand.”</p><p class="p1">Neal half-expects Senna to argue, as she had in the courtyard. But instead, she gives a joyful, broken laugh, and nods, looking in their direction with absolute trust in her eyes. “Thank you, milady.”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna smiles. “It’s just my job, Mistress.” She cracks her knuckles together, and the pop echoes throughout the room. “It’d be a good idea for you to see a healer, next week, to see how you’re going. I know just the person.” There’s a hint of worry in Senna’s eyes at that, and Sir Alanna’s voice gentles again. “I’d offer to see you again myself, but unfortunately, I can’t guarantee that I won’t be called away from Corus at short notice. But Eleni Cooper is very, <em>very</em> good, and very experienced. She lives in Olau House – just tell the guards at the gate that Sir Alanna sent you, and they’ll let you through.”</p><p class="p1">“Will they believe me?” Senna asks, looking dubious at the thought, which is – understandable, really. For someone who lives in a city where beggars routinely get moved off the streets of upper-class districts, like unsightly pieces of leaf litter in a roof gutter.</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna scowls fiercely, but she aims it at the wall of the solarium, rather than at Senna. “They had <em>better</em>. But if they don’t – swear by the Goddess. They <em>will</em> let you through, then.”</p><p class="p1">That makes Senna look…not reassured, exactly. More as though she is bordering on a feeling of hysterical laughter, which Neal honestly rather sympathises with. He can speak from the past two days of experience that being around a living legend involves large concentrations of <em>uncomfortable</em>.</p><p class="p1">It seems fair to assume that being around the divine – even at a distance – is worse. Hopefully, he will be able to avoid that, during his tenure as Alanna’s squire.</p><p class="p1">But Senna takes a deep breath and gives a single, determined nod. Then she immediately winces and claps a hand protectively over her recovering eye.</p><p class="p1">“I understand, your ladyship,” she says, fierce and solemn and looking slightly childlike with her hand in that position, all at once. “I will. And I won’t waste your kindness. I swear to you.”</p><p class="p1">“I never thought you would, Senna.” But Alanna’s voice sounds very far away, because Neal’s mind is already travelling back over the past hour, back over everything in her story that Senna had told them because – <em>waste.</em> That one word encompassed so much of the, the bleak <em>stupidity</em> of it.</p><p class="p1">Waste and shortages. A waste of skill in Dunlath, where a sudden lack of demand had sent a young woman tumbling across Tortall, towards a city where she had no ready connections, no access to plying her trade.</p><p class="p1">A waste where the Guilds refusing to take on a new apprentice who couldn’t pay the joining fee, to better protect their own profit margins, to better feather their <em>own</em> nests, meant that a skilled, clever woman was trapped into poor working conditions. Conditions that weren’t even <em>halfway</em> to adequate, but she’d had no leverage to ask for better, and whoever had taken her into their shop had known it, or Neal would eat his boots.</p><p class="p1">And the sheer waste that Senna <em>couldn’t write</em>, combined with a shortage of staff at a Temple clinic, meant that she’d gone a <em>year</em> where a decade and a half of experience and craftsmanship had gone – gone to waste. Because of an eye injury that could have been fixed in <em>less than ten minutes</em>.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>So what are you going to do about it now, Queenscove?</em>
</p><p class="p1">Cures are good, but prevention is <em>better</em>, and rule one of prevention is: treat the root source and make it <em>stay </em>treated. And the root cause of this injury has nothing to do with Senna’s eye.</p><p class="p1"><em>Take her into Queenscove service?</em> As the now-eldest son he <em>does</em> technically have the authority to do that, and his mother would probably happily sign over half her solarium, since she only uses it for working out equations. But it’s still a waste: both his parents share a burning distaste for lace, Jessamine wears it but only on rare occasions, and while Neal has always appreciated lace in small quantities, he confines that appreciation to <em>other</em> people’s clothes. His knight-mistress doesn’t seem to be the type to like it, either.</p><p class="p1"><em>What about the Palace? </em>Neal considers that idea for a moment, and then discards it as well. The Palace tailors work with linens, cottons, wools and leathers. Their work is good, solid, sturdy, and holds up for pages, squires, servants, ostlers and so many more people. But lacework, you find in a noblewoman’s closet, on her finest gowns.</p><p class="p1"><em>There has to be someone,</em> he thinks, feeling a little desperate. Because this would be the most ridiculous thing of all, for Senna to end up in exactly the same position in two years time, because her cataract got better and her ability to work in good conditions didn’t.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>There has to be someone who can use another pair of hands. Some tailor or a dressmaker.</em>
</p><p class="p1">The answer crashes through his brain a second later, and it’s so obvious that he smacks himself on the forehead. <em>Idiot.</em></p><p class="p1">“Mistress Senna?” he asks. “Can I ask – would you <em>like</em> to work with lace again?”</p><p class="p1">Senna’s fragile laugh lights up her face. “Oh, only as much as a fish would like to swim, Squire Neal.”</p><p class="p1">Neal grins – she <em>is</em> feeling better – and looks to Sir Alanna. “My lady, if you don’t mind us detouring back here after our visit the armoury – assuming that’s still on the cards – Senna, I think I know someone who would <em>love</em> to meet you. And possibly hire you.”</p><p class="p1">The slow-dawning hope and wonder on Senna’s face might outshine a sunrise; it’s even better than the look of startled approval in Sir Alanna’s eyes.</p><p class="p1">(Because that look of approval feels good, too, like warmth and light, and Neal can’t quite shake the knowledge that Sir Alanna should have directed that look at <em>Kel</em>. Thus, he can’t prevent a feeling like guilt from forming a knot in his stomach.)</p><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p3">* * * * * * * * * *</p><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p1">An uncomfortable silence hangs between them, as they ride down Palace Way once more.</p><p class="p1">Or rather: a silence hangs between them, in which Neal feels <em>very</em> uncomfortable. He can’t actually tell, despite his frequent covert glances at her, what Sir Alanna is actually thinking, at this point – and he’s been trying since they left the townhouse.</p><p class="p1">Until one moment: “Spit it out, squire. Or I’m going to assume that I have something growing out of my face.”</p><p class="p1">…not so covert glances. Neal winces. But since he’s already been caught–</p><p class="p1">“Did I do something wrong, my lady?” he dares to ask. “Only you’ve been very quiet since we left the townhouse.”</p><p class="p1">“Not at all,” Sir Alanna says, and her tone is – surprised. “I’ve just been thinking. When I was a squire, I wasn’t doing these kinds of rounds. My healer’s experience was limited to battlefield care, for quite some time. But I don’t think I would have thought up that kind of solution on the spot. Let alone realised that one was required in the first place.”</p><p class="p1">“…oh,” Neal says at last, and he can’t quite keep the disbelief out of his voice. It had been so <em>obvious,</em> though! Anyone who’d sat through even <em>one</em> complete course of his father’s seminars in community health would have been able to work it out, or should have been.</p><p class="p1">He manages to keep from saying that aloud, but his knight-mistress throws him a sour, dry look, and clearly, she can hear thoughts. And they’d been getting along relatively well this morning. Dammit.</p><p class="p1">“Traditionally, a ‘thank you’ is the normal response to a compliment like that, squire.”</p><p class="p1">“Thank you, your ladyship,” he replies, and it is sheer reflex that has his response coming out equally dry. He’d swear it. “And my apologies, I was feeling bashful.” Not the truth, there, but it might do?</p><p class="p1">“Squire, I’m not sure you know the <em>meaning</em> of the term ‘bashful’,” Sir Alanna growls, and it really is remarkable how much she <em>can</em> resemble a lioness when she does that. </p><p class="p1">“I was just…startled, milady,” he says weakly. “I know you said you only had battlefield experience for a long time, but – surely anyone paying attention to the patient history would have realised?”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna shakes her head. “No, squire. I can tell you that a lot of people paying attention to that history would <em>not</em> have thought of it the same way. They would have diagnosed a cataract, treated it, and then either suggested she take up different work, or find better conditions to work in.”</p><p class="p1">Neal feels his temper begin to surge. “And it wouldn’t have occurred to any of these people that if it was that simple, she would have done it already?”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna’s tone is filled with a suspiciously mild curiosity. Her question of “How do you figure?” feels rather like a trap, but Neal is irritated enough by the vision she has raised to step into it anyway.</p><p class="p1">“She wasn’t in bad working conditions because she <em>wanted</em> to be there,” he snaps. “She was there because she has no family here, no connections to secure the kind of work she’s trained in, because she’s from the other side of the country – and the Weavers’ guild is apparently as short-sighted as pigs eating from a trough, because they can’t see beyond their profit margin for long enough to realise that adding another skilled worker to their ranks is <em>good</em>, even if it’s an initial up-front investment, since it means she won’t be competition!”</p><p class="p1">His cheeks are hot, and his chest is heaving, as the words finish tripping into the summer air, and <em>oh</em>, he…he should not have said that. Any of it. Or at least, he shouldn’t have said it like that. Not so angrily. It’s a thing worth getting angry about, of course, it’d be wrong to <em>not</em> be angry, but – Sir Alanna doesn’t deserve to feel the force of it. It’s not her fault the world is insane.</p><p class="p1">(Although, she did offer to take him on. So – perhaps it’s not just his fault?)</p><p class="p1">But instead of yelling back, Alanna just…snorts. “Not pigs,” she tells him. “Pigs can be very intelligent, decent animals. It took me a few years to learn that one, too. And you’re right. What the Weavers’ Guild did to her was anything <em>but</em> intelligent.” For a moment, there is quiet again, broken only by the clop of their horses’ hooves on the cobbles. The noonday heat has made the crowd of the morning disperse. “Who is it that you think will want to hire her?”</p><p class="p1">Neal doesn’t understand his knight-mistress. He really, truly doesn’t. His politest responses – okay, his <em>best attempts</em> at politeness, which is not quite the same thing, even after four years with the Stump – seem to draw nothing but dry and sour looks. But every time he yells, or acts out, or is far too insolent or sarcastic, Sir Alanna <em>relaxes.</em></p><p class="p1">This is <em>incredibly</em> confusing, and it may end up driving him a bit crazy, especially if it keeps up for the next four years.</p><p class="p1">But – he may as well go with it?</p><p class="p1">“Lalasa Isran,” he says, in response to her actual question, as calmly as he can, which is not much. Sir Alanna’s expression turns into pure confusion. “Kel’s maid. She’s quite the dressmaker - Her Majesty commissioned a gown from her for the Congress. She’s just set up a shop over where the Lower City spills into Patten District.”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna’s nod is decisive. “I know it. And that’s quite a testament to Miss Isran’s skill. You think she could use a lacemaker, then?”</p><p class="p1">Neal shrugs, feeling a little worried now. “It seems worth a try,” he says. “And – Lalasa is <em>very</em> good. I suspect she’s only going to get more business, after word gets out about the Queen’s gown. Before long, she’s going to have more business than she can manage with just herself and her friend. But if Lalasa’s wary about the upfront cost, then I’ll commission something from Senna myself. A scarf or a shawl, or something.”</p><p class="p1">Possibly more than one. His mother and his sister might not <em>like</em> lace, especially on their clothes, but they would understand if it was for something like this. </p><p class="p1">“Hmm.” Sir Alanna seems to glance at the sky for a long moment, before a grin flashes across her face. “A very good thought. I may do the same, if needs must. I wouldn’t mind a nice shawl for when autumn comes rolling in. We’re turning right here, squire.”</p><p class="p1">Neal glances to the right, already checking Magewhisper and signalling to turn, when–</p><p class="p1">The street sign is rather unmistakable. The beech wood sign is actually lacquered and <em>polished</em>, to a gentle golden glow in the summer sun, and the black raven’s head gleams.</p><p class="p1">“That’s the Raven Armoury sign,” Neal says. Because either he’s seeing things, in which case they should really discover it <em>sooner</em>, rather than later, or his knight-mistress has lost her head.</p><p class="p1">“Yes, it is,” Sir Alanna says, rather amicably, as she urges Darkmoon into the street.</p><p class="p1">Magewhisper tosses her head impatiently and Neal loosens up on the rein just a little, letting her follow. Then he decides to pursue it.</p><p class="p1">“<em>Why</em> are we going to Raven Armoury?” he asks her. Over the high stone wall of the Armoury, Neal can hear the hissing of broad-heads through the air as the masters test their arrows, and smell the hot, metallic smell of the Armoury’s prized steel being poured.</p><p class="p1">“To get your kit, of course,” Sir Alanna says, sounding very puzzled. “Why else would we be here?”</p><p class="p1">They – she – <em>what?</em></p><p class="p1">“To get <em>my</em> kit,” Neal repeats.</p><p class="p1">“You didn’t hit your head, did you?”</p><p class="p1">Neal does not dignify that with a response. Instead, he stares at her. “Sir Alanna – you don’t have to–”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna’s eyebrows are climbing towards her hairline. “I shouldn’t make sure that my squire – the only one I’m likely to have, in my career, I’ll remind you – is outfitted in the best I can provide for him?”</p><p class="p1">“Sir, you don’t have to do this for <em>me</em>,” Neal says again, trying to get his point across, but it doesn’t seem to be working. “We could probably find some pieces in the Queenscove armoury, back at the townhouse.”</p><p class="p1">Even if there is a tiny part of him that is about nine years old which is squealing at a very high pitch out of sheer excitement that they are going to <em>Raven Armoury</em>. To get something that is <em>just for him. </em>Neal squashes that thought, firmly. It’s a kind thought, but he can’t possibly accept it.</p><p class="p1">“And yet, I’m rather confident that it’s the knight-master’s responsibility to outfit the squire with arms and armour,” Sir Alanna counters. “Not his family’s.”</p><p class="p1">Well, yes. But really– “<em>Sir</em>,” he tries again. “Truly–”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna pinches the bridge of her nose and cuts him off, her voice full of strained patience. “We’re speaking the same language, I could swear,” she says. “So I’m not sure why we’re at this impasse, Queenscove.”</p><p class="p1">The last fraying bits of Neal’s patience, worn away even faster by trying to deny himself something he would <em>very much like</em>, finally snap then, and he thinks: oh, for <em>fuck’s sake</em>.</p><p class="p1">He pitches his voice soft and low, deliberately too low for anyone else to hear, low enough that Sir Alanna has to toe Darkmoon over to hear him properly, and says: “I mean, there’s no need to go out of your way to spoil the squire that you didn’t really <em>want</em> to take, my lady. You wanted to take Kel, and that’s <em>fair,</em> but someone had to look after me. I get that, but–”</p><p class="p1">His knight-mistress’ face has just gone <em>incredibly</em> blotchy, red and white, violet eyes stark and angry in the middle of the clashing colours. That’s…not a good sign, is it?</p><p class="p1">“Hold it,” she says, and her voice is dead level. “Nealan of Queenscove, hold it <em>right there</em>. Are you suggesting that I <em>didn’t want</em> to take you as my squire?”</p><p class="p1">Neal feels about four years old again, suddenly.</p><p class="p1">“That’s what it <em>sounded like</em> were saying in the meeting yesterday. Sir,” he says, looking down at Magewhisper’s withers. “If it was politically possible, at all, you would have taken Kel. But you can’t, and I need teaching.”</p><p class="p1">“…You are an <em>idiot</em>,” Sir Alanna says, her voice crisp. “Dismount with me, and lead the horses to the side of the road.”</p><p class="p1">That….is not been what he had thought she would say. Well, he’s been expecting to hear her say that at some point, but not after he’d said that, specifically.</p><p class="p1">Neal looks at her, after they have both dismounted. “<em>Why</em> am I an idiot, exactly?”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna snorts, as they lead the horses off the main road. Some of the blotchiness is still there in her face, but there is a look in her eyes that is exasperation – but not true anger. Not rage.</p><p class="p1">“You’d somehow convinced yourself that I’d <em>ever</em> do something I didn’t really want to do. Idiotic, Neal.” She shakes her head, short copper hair flying like a halo around her head. “Although I can’t, in good conscience, completely blame you. But I’m going to say this once, and once only, so listen up, Neal.”</p><p class="p1">Does anyone ever listen <em>down</em>? No, focus, Neal.</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna takes a deep breath. “Alright. Yes, I was disappointed, when I realised I couldn’t take Keladry as my squire. I was angry and grieving about it for two weeks. It was just after I’d heard about her maid being kidnapped, and I realised that for Keladry, it wouldn’t be enough that no-one could ever prove anything <em>against</em> her. Whatever she did to prove her credentials, it had to be public. She’d have to prove <em>herself</em>, out in the open.” Sir Alanna’s smile is sad. “And I’m a lone knight by nature. I work with others, surely, but I’m a legend to so many people. And legends, well, no-one <em>ever</em> knows everything about them. Fact of life.</p><p class="p1">“But even then, Neal, I heard about you having the presence of mind, in the middle of that, to go and actually brief Lord Wyldon. And after I’d finally accepted that I couldn’t take Keladry as a squire, and heard that Raoul wanted to teach her, I started to realise that <em>I</em> still wanted to take on a squire. I still wanted to actually teach someone, for once. To pass on some of my experience. And that is when I thought of you as that student.” Sir Alanna pauses briefly. “And then I was immediately horrified by the thought.”</p><p class="p1">Neal is <em>physically incapable</em> of letting an opening like that go. “That’s an interesting way of assuring me that you wanted to train me, sir.”</p><p class="p1">She snorts. “Because you, squire, are interrupting halfway through the story. So hush, why don’t you? I was horrified, because I once tried to train another young man in magic. When I first met the Bloody Hawk, and the paint was still wet on my shield. His name was Ishak, and he – he was brash and talented, young and brave, insolent and headstrong, and he <em>never</em> listened.”</p><p class="p1">…Oh. All of that <em>does</em> sound…rather familiar, Neal admits. And he suddenly has a nasty feeling in his gut about the way Sir Alanna is speaking in the past tense about this Ishak.</p><p class="p1">“I did my best with him,” Sir Alanna continues, her voice suddenly turning flat. “I tried. I tried <em>so </em>hard to make him listen to me. But he wouldn’t, no matter what he did. And one day, it got him killed. For years, I had nightmares about the way he died. <em>That’s</em> why I was horrified at the thought of taking you on and training you. Because you’d need to train your Gift, not just with weapons.”</p><p class="p1"><em>Oh.</em> Neal rocks onto his heels, a little stunned. It…hadn’t been about him not being Kel. It hadn’t been about him at all.</p><p class="p1">It is perhaps that realisation that grants him the courage to ask: “So…what changed your mind?”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna’s face turns beet-red, and she looks away, but – it’s a fair question, isn’t it?Neal tugs on his hair, as the silence stretches. Alanna stretches her neck, looking up at the sky, until at last, she sighs and turns to fidget with Darkmoon’s saddle. Her voice still carries clearly.</p><p class="p1">“By this point, I’d already started entertaining the possibility of taking you as my squire. I couldn’t let the idea go, or ignore the incredibly likely chance that if I didn’t teach you, you <em>wouldn’t</em> get any of the training you needed.</p><p class="p1">“And Ishak…he never had much of a chance. He made his own choices, I know. But the only thing he ever got taught was power. His whole childhood, he lived hand-to-mouth, off what the men of the tribe would give him, so that he and his fellow orphans wouldn’t curse them. He understood power and fear, and nothing else. He was extremely self-serving; he looked out for himself first, foremost and near-exclusively.” Sir Alanna’s eyes are uncomfortably knowing, as they turn back onto Neal. “He never would have helped teach self-defence to a serving girl. Or done everything he could to help Keladry, when she went to rescue her servant.” </p><p class="p1">Neal flushes, because the words ‘damned by faint praise’ have never seemed so real to him. “How did you know about that?”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna rolls her eyes. “I’m Roald’s aunt. He kept me updated on <em>everything</em> concerning Keladry for four years.”</p><p class="p1">…Of <em>course</em> he did, Neal thinks, with a sigh. Of course he did. Roald would have hated feeling caught between his sister, his aunt and his mother on one side, and his father and king’s decision on the other. Keeping Aunt Alanna appraised of everything to do with Keladry would have been a way to ease the feeling of being caught in the middle. And Neal has a sudden suspicion about who Kel’s mystery benefactor, for all these years, has been as well.</p><p class="p1">“But the point is,” Sir Alanna says, her back still pointedly turned towards him. One hand is tugging at her earlobe. “I realised you were a very different breed of boy than Ishak. Even if you shared the qualities of being headstrong and <em>ridiculously</em> stubborn. So I decided to pray the Goddess for guidance, and I got it. By the time your parents contacted me, I’d already made the decision and was starting to put together a list of things you’d need in my head.”</p><p class="p1">She finally turns and looks at him. Her face is still very, very pink, but she no longer looks like she’s about to have an apoplexy induced by embarrassment.</p><p class="p1">Neal, on the other hand, feels like his feet have turned to stone, and like a rug has been yanked out from underneath him, all at the same time. It’s a very confusing mix of sensations, and all he can muster, by way of a response is: “So it wasn’t feeling guilty or obliged to my parents? Or feeling that <em>someone</em> had to teach me?”</p><p class="p1">“Someone <em>did</em> have to teach you,” she responds, putting one foot into Darkmoon’s stirrup. Neal follows suit, swinging up onto Magewhisper’s back. The mare lets out a quiet chuff. Approval at not simply standing in the middle of the street in full tack, Neal assumes. “And I owe both your parents more than I describe. Both those things were part of it. But I took you on because I wanted to, squire. It was <em>my</em> decision.” Sir Alanna’s voice is very fierce now. “And if you ever doubt that again, so help me, you <em>will</em> regret it. You were not my consolation prize, and I won’t have you thinking otherwise.”</p><p class="p1">Relief surges through his veins, and Neal has to stare very hard at Magewhisper’s pretty flaxen mane for a few seconds. But he’s alright with that. Because Sir Alanna’s words mean that had known <em>exactly</em> what she was getting into when she took him on as a squire, and had chosen it anyway. He doesn’t have to keep watching himself anymore, he doesn’t have to keep trying to be polite like Kel would be in the same situation, and it is such a <em>relief.</em></p><p class="p1">Relief, as it happens, makes him giddy, and a giddy Neal tends to be an insolent Neal. “Are you always so warm and fuzzy when you threaten people, sir? Or am I special?”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna glances over at him, peers at his expression, and then stares up at the heavens. She looks like a woman praying for rain, or for some other form of divine intervention. “This is going to be a long day, I can see already,” she grumbles.</p><p class="p1">Neal grins at her. “So we’re going to Raven Armoury, right?”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna groans, but there’s a laugh not-quite-suppressed mixed into it this time, and this – this might turn out alright.</p><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p3">* * * * * * * * * * </p><p class="p4"> </p><p class="p1">Two hours later, Neal’s arms are aching, as are his legs, shoulders and feet. Testing out cross-bows, swords, axes, halberds and being fitted for plate armour will do that.</p><p class="p1">He is also is staring at the two very large, sturdy trunks holding everything that Sir Alanna had deemed necessary and immediate.</p><p class="p1">“That’ll do,” Sir Alanna says, bright and cheerful, as though she hasn’t just spent enough money on him to beggar entire villages. “You’ll send the plate armour up next week? Gambeson, mail, helm, gauntlets and greaves should do him for now, Goddess willing.”</p><p class="p1">“Aye, your ladyship,” says Master Ranholf gravely. His face is sombre, but his eyes are twinkling. “There is just one question – his shield. What would you like it to be? The Pirate’s Swoop device or your own personal Lioness device?”</p><p class="p1">Sir Alanna drums her fingers on a hilt for a second, and then shrugs and smiles. “He can wear the cat. He is <em>my</em> squire, after all. It wouldn’t for there to be any confusion on that point,” she says, very pointedly not looking at him.</p><p class="p1">Neal looks very intently at the ground and feels a smile breaking loose around his lips.) </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>1. Neal's first thought when Lalasa had said "She's gone" was very much NOT "she's been called away." </p><p>2. Lalasa isn't 100% sure she ships it yet. She is 75% sure, but Lady Kel deserves the best.</p><p>3. Alanna was very prepared to deal with Neal being insolent, having many memories of Baird's absurdly cheeky third son. The sudden switches from the promised smartassery to politeness are just BAFFLING, though. </p><p>4. To my startlement: it seems like a good warhorse was probably not that big or tall. You needed an animal that was fast enough to build to a charge with serious momentum, and strong enough to carry a knight in full armour. Outside of draft breeds, which I have disqualified on speed grounds, the taller a horse, the more distributed its muscle, and the less it can carry. </p><p>So: Magewhisper is inspired by Quarter Horse and Australian Stock Horse types. (I got very obsessed with this question. Behold the fruits of my trivia-hunting.)</p><p>5. Southwind is named for Shai South-Wind, the K'miri god of sex, healing, volcanoes and magic. Neal got her at the age of thirteen after his first year at the Mages' College, and agonized for a WEEK about the fact that he was naming his mare after a stallion deity. *shakes head affectionately* </p><p>6. Bian North-Wind is the K'miri goddess of trade, sleep, fertility and horses.</p><p> 7. I'm not entirely sure when you can start at the Tortallan Royal University, and I don't own A Spy's Guide. For my purposes, you can start at age twelve, and sometimes, they'll let you in younger. Neal started at age twelve, but had been hanging around campus for a year before that, much to the faculty's collective exasperation and amusement.</p><p>8. The role of the Champion as the sword arm of the crown is FASCINATING, and has led to me pondering what it's like when Alanna fights a noble. I've concluded that, now that Jon's reign is stable, her role kicks in when a noble challenges a court ruling concerning them, specifically. Since nobles seem to have an astonishing degree of licence on their own lands, that probably only kicks in when they've actually been charged with a crime, anything from high treason to fraud. </p><p>9. The incident of a toddler running off into a Dangerous Situation is inspired by my nephew. (He's okay, don't worry.)</p><p>10. Neal with his bird's-eye public health lens: he IS young to be thinking this way. But he's also the son of the realm's Chief Healer and also Wil, who is a systems analyst and master of theory. He so would. </p><p>11. It has now been a sufficiently long time since the twins were toddlers that Alanna has forgotten how difficult it can be to maintain a serious conversation while they are in the vicinity. Also, that while they love sparklies, they may, or may NOT, happily and quietly play with the sparklies.</p><p>12. I suspect the reason she tells Neal to ask Wil is that she hasn't used magic to dye the thread, which would be time-consuming. Rather, Alanna has used magic to alter the level of energy surrounding the thread so that it appears to change colour. This is a) more Wil's area and b) an extremely time-consuming to LEARN, but quite easy to do once you know how and c) infrequently needed, but highly useful. </p><p>13. Neal is romantic, but not naïve. This combination amuses me, as it means his feelings on sex work probably boils down into a) a very easygoing respect, because a woman's body is between her and the Goddess, and the ladies of the court of the Rogue are formidable; and b) horror at the notion of <em>him</em> soliciting sex, because WHERE IS THE ROMANCE IN SUCH A TRANSACTION? </p><p>14. There's nothing I can find about the etiology of cataracts that suggests lacemaking in a dark room is a plausible cause. I am handwaving that in the name of Story. Sorry, to any medicos in the audience.</p><p>15. The interesting and horrific thing about there is a guild for Weavers, but not one for Spinners or Seamstresses: every woman in a household spun. (<a href="https://acoup.blog/2021/03/19/collections-clothing-how-did-they-make-it-part-iii-spin-me-right-round/">See this amazing post here.)</a> The thing is, this set-up very much does NOT lead to guild organisation. Considering that sewing was also an everywoman task, and that specialised lace-makers would probably have been in a nobles' employ, it means that someone in Senna's position really doesn't have any ready path to employment.</p><p>16. Needlelace and lace-knitting are TERRIFYINGLY MINUTE and very cool.</p><p>17. Brokefang and the ogres must have been a Bit Weird for the villagers.</p><p>18. I shouldn't need to say this, but do NOT take the explanation about cataracts as medical information!</p><p>19. Neal: hopefully I can avoid the gods<br/>Me, the alleged author: *eyes emoji eyes emoji eyes emoji*</p><p>20. Lalasa DOES hire Senna, and Wilina, Jessamine and Alanna all enjoy lovely lace-knit shawls.</p>
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